KEEPING THE FAITH
Just so you know,
Six sturdy men, all scattered now,
Will carry my coffin some day.
They'll tuck in to the spread served afterward
(More beans, another slice of ham)
Served by kindly ladies down the street.
If you get a priest, he'll say something
About even the most hardened sinners,
That sort of thing; it's what he does.
Give him fifty bucks and send him home,
But give the pallbearers each a fifth of decent
Scotch.
I'll leave you something in my will,
Some little thing:
A Guinness, creamy from the tap,
Sunset off Galway,
Or lights of Chicago across the lake.
Also, snapshots of all those Sundays
We never bothered with the priest,
And you made blue corn pancakes,
With butter and maple syrup,
For Communion.
WINTER NARRATIVES
One lady smiled and thought of picture postcards,
Words like Pretty and Fairyland.
A neighbor wished she could paint a picture;
I'd hang it on the wall, she told herself.
Another worried about Ted,
Driving all that way from work on icy roads.
The storm ended, finally. Yards lay silent,
Trees rimed, branches etched stark in white.
Eccentric geometries appeared:
Bird tracks, mad and hieroglyphic,
Here a rabbit's trail, there a hawk's lush feast,
Feathers and blood, snow scattered.
Later, the postcard lady quarreled with her husband.
Her neighbor forgot about painting pictures,
And her boyfriend fell asleep in his chair.
Ted got home safely as more snow began.
That night, beneath a coverlet of yellow roses,
Ted and his wife conceived a child.
RIVER OF DREAMS
Nancy was late for Christmas dinner, been with her
boyfriend since the night before, so Pa said Put the
food on, and we ate at four, an hour late as it was.
None of us looked at Pa, we'd mumble Pass the butter
please, but no one talked. You could hear the clock in
the hallway. Afterward he got red and silent, drank
alone in the TV room. It wasn't the beer after beer,
it was whiskey shots when the beer ran out made him
mean as a storm when she walked in at five with these
bright red packages, Ma and Suzy putting away the
dishes. I was thirteen and snuck upstairs with my
Christmas Walkman, drown out the yelling, Pa going
Good Christ Almighty, Nancy crying. Nearly drowned it,
anyway. Ma hollering No Jim, No. Please God. next
morning tree on its side, red green glass like colored
sugar all over the rug. Ma in the kitchen running
water, just running water, Pa still in bed. No sign of
Suzy, Nancy's car gone and would be from that day on,
and me with my Walkman, it was Billy Joel, I'm making
plans, thinking it over carefully, get out of here
soon as I can.
