THE ARGONNE HOTEL PRESS CHAPBOOK SERIES

ABSENT DAYS
New & Collected Poems by R.D. BAKER

Chronological Inventory of Days & Nights with You • Ancestry • blood carnival • douglas • monkey • no excuses • sexual politics • speech one • cerridwen • Frau Goebbels • Travis Bickle’s Villanelle • How to Build Confidence, Gain Self-Esteem, and Earn Recognition by Becoming a Poet: The Twelve-Step Program • For Example— • Pathology • Territory • Against Slams • FIGHTING/WORDS • Art of Collage

$10.00 US • 60 pages

Copyright © 1999 The Argonne Hotel Press. ISBN 1-88761-19-X
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A Chronological Inventory of Days and Nights with You

After the reading,
you say ‘‘Hello,’’ introduce yourself, shake my hand,
and after driving three hundred miles to perform that simple act,
you say ‘‘Goodbye,’’
and drive all the way back.

1.
On Christmas Eve, you arrive at the party I told you about,
and we speak freely, though uneasily, mapping broad outlines of personal geography.
As other guests depart, banished children soon reappear, corner us in the kitchen,
excited curiosity overcoming shyness as the youngest one asks me, confusedly,
if I am YOUR girlfriend.
You give no sign you hear, but later, under one umbrella, you take my arm as I hail a cab,
and when we reach your address, wrap both arms around me quick and tight
before we part for the night.

2.
That weekend at the fundraiser, after my speech,
I sit next to you and hear you whisper ‘‘I know what you need, you need a backer,’’
although what I HEAR is NOT what you SAY. As the crowd dwindles,
the conversation turns to gender stereotypes and ‘‘typical male behaviors.’’
I build a fire in the fireplace to attract you, watch silently, nursing the flames,
til you stand next to me. Alone, your fingers find my knotted shoulders and you shudder
at the tension trapped within the muscles of my back,
as I soon will tremble at the silky softness of your first kiss.

3.
You invite me to keep you company on New Year’s Eve,
and I come bearing two red roses, a small bottle of champagne, and a large can of chicken soup
to cure what ails you. You recover soon enough to take me to your favorite bar in Georgetown
for the stroke of midnight, ‘‘Almost like a real date,’’ I joke,
as the ball drops on the TV screen and you sip your Guinness with a smile.

4.
Coffee for two on a Sunday afternoon, then dinner for four in Bethesda,
my friends so pleased to see me so happy, charmed by your description
of the Celtic god Oghmios, silver chains hanging from his laughing mouth,
linked to the hearts of mortal men and women, Oghmios god of eloquence and poetry,
who leaves me speechless under your adoring eyes.

5.
You stand in bright sunlight all day, Guenevere for the filmmaker’s art,
then sit next to me in darkness for a Capra triple-feature:
American Madness; The Bitter Tea of General Yen; You Can t Take It With You.
Legs draped comfortably over mine, you watch, I listen, hear all the right words.

6.
I come by late, and you surprise me with Doctor’s orders:
Stay up all night for an EEG at eight. On random CD, we listen to the poets in their own voices,
Walt Whitman, W.C. Williams, Wallace Stevens, so many others, taxi around the empty city streets,
to breakfast, my darkened downtown office, finally to my place.
I have my camera with me all along, shoot four rolls of film by dawn,
put you promptly in a cab at seven-forty, without a yawn.

7.
The drugs they want you to take make you hazy and sleepy and not so much yourself,
so you do not want to take them again. We go to see the play anyway,
‘‘Miss Margarida’s Way,’’ and Miss Margarida tells us in no uncertain terms:
Every one of you in this room today is going to die. Every one.
Holding you later, feeling the steady rhythm of your breathing against me,
I tell myself: It’s true, we ARE going to die—but not today.

8.
Unexpectedly, you treat me to a home-cooked meal:
lamb sausages with mushrooms under candlelight.
After dinner, you make me turn off the Marx Brothers video halfway through,
because you’re laughing so hard it hurts.
Just as I am convinced it can’t get any better than this,
you show me that it can.

9.
We climb the steep stone staircase arm in arm, speak openly of plans
for a weekend at the beach, birthdays, holidays, then at the top you turn and stop
you stop and turn my hand in yours, with shining eyes and careful words you stop this world.
We go on in cold sunlight. In your absence I know the vacancy of all my years.

10.
Our limbs tangled under piles of blankets, I think: We are so lucky to be alive at all.
We will live today, and when today passes into tomorrow, which will then also become today,
we may still find safety and happiness in that present moment,
or else in the memory of all our yesterdays,
however short or long: ten minutes, ten hours, ten days or ten thousand.