New Poems Book Three (9 page)

really feeling old sometimes,

pushing to get off of the couch,

puffing as I tie my shoes.

no, not me,

Jesus, please not me!

don’t

put me in a fucking walker next,

plodding along.

somehow, I couldn’t abide

that.

I light a cigar,

feel better.

at least I can still make it to the track

every day they’re running, slam

my bets in.

keeps the heart warm and the

brain hustling.

I still drive the side streets

in the meanest parts of

town,

gliding down back alleys, peering

around,

always curious.

I’m still crazy,

I’m all right,

and I’m in and out of the doctor’s

office, for this, for that, joking with

the nurses.

give me a few pills and I’m all

right.

got a refrigerator up here

in my writing room

stocked with cold ones.

the fight is still on.

I may be backed into a corner but I’m

snarling in the dark.

what’s left?

the redemption and the glory.

the last march of summer.

try to put me in a walker now and I’ll

kick your ass!

meanwhile, here’s another cold one,

and another.

it will be a while before I

see you at the finish line,

sucker.

we were always broke, rescuing the Sunday papers out of

Monday trashcans (along with the refundable soft drink bottles).

we were always being evicted from our old place

but in each new apartment we would begin a new existence,

always dramatically behind in the rent, the radio

playing bravely in the torn sunlight, we lived like millionaires, as if

our lives were blessed, and I loved her high-heeled shoes and her sexy

dresses, and also how she laughed at me

sitting in my torn undershirt decorated with

cigarette holes: we were some team, Jane and I, we sparkled through

the tragedy of our poverty as if it was a joke, as if it

didn’t matter—and it didn’t—we had it by the throat and we were

laughing it to death.

it was said afterwards that

never had been heard such wild singing, such joyful singing of

old songs

and never

such screaming and cursing—

breaking of glass—

madness—

barricaded against the landlord and the police (old pros, we were) to

awake in the morning with the couch, chairs and dresser pushed up against the

door.

upon awakening

I always said, “ladies first …”

and Jane would run to the bathroom for some minutes and then

I’d have my turn and

then, back in our bed, both of us breathing quietly, we’d wonder what

disaster the new day would bring, feeling trapped, slain, stupid,

desperate, feeling that we had used up the last of our luck, certain we were finally

out of good fortune.

it can get deep-rooted sad when your back is up against the wall first

thing each morning but we always managed to work our way past all

that.

usually after 10 or 15 minutes Jane would say,

“shit!” and I would say,

“yeah!”

and then, penniless and without hope we’d figure out a

way to

continue, and then somehow we would.

love has her many strange ways.

the dogs walk quickly down the sidewalk

in the sun and in the

rain and in the dark and in the

afternoon

the dogs quickly walk down the sidewalk and they know something

but they won’t tell us

what it is.

no

they aren’t going to tell us

no no no

they aren’t going to tell us

as

the dogs walk quickly down the sidewalk.

it’s all there to be seen

in the sun and the rain and in the dark

the dogs walking quickly down the sidewalk

watch them watch them watch them

with the eye and with the heart

as the dogs walk quickly down the sidewalk

knowing something we will never comprehend.

death will come on padded feet

carrying roses in its mouth.

not as bad as it could be

but bad enough: in and out

of the hospital, in and out of

the doctor’s office, hanging

by a thread: “you’re in

remission, no, wait, 2 new

cells here, and your

platelets are way down.

have you been drinking?

we’ll probably have to take

another bone marrow test

tomorrow.”

the doctor is busy, the

waiting room in the cancer

ward is crowded.

the nurses are pleasant, they

joke with me.

I think that’s nice, joking while in the

valley of the

shadow of death.

my wife is with me.

I am sorry for my wife, I am

sorry for all the

wives.

then we are down in the

parking lot.

she drives sometimes.

I drive sometimes.

I drive now.

it’s been a cold summer.

“maybe you should take a

little swim when we get home,”

says my

wife.

it’s a warmer day than

usual.

“sure,” I say and pull out of

the parking lot.

she’s a brave woman, she

acts like everything is

as usual.

but now I’ve got to pay for all

those profligate years;

there were so many of

them.

the bill has come due

and they’ll accept only

one final

payment.

I might as well take a

swim.

the rooms at the hospital went for

$550 a day.

that was for the room alone.

the amazing thing, though, was that

in some of the rooms

prisoners were

lodged.

I saw them chained to their beds,

usually by an

ankle.

$550 a day, plus meals,

now that’s luxury

living—plus first-rate medical attention

and two guards

on watch.

and here I was with my cancer,

walking down the halls in my

robe

thinking, if I live through this

it will take me years to

pay off the hospital

while the prisoners won’t owe

a damned

thing.

not that I didn’t have some

sympathy for those fellows

but when you consider that

when something like a bullet

in one of your buttocks

gets you all that free attention,

medical and otherwise,

plus no billing later

from the hospital business

office, maybe I had chosen

the wrong

occupation?

at 5:30 a.m. I was

awakened by this hard sound,

heavy and hard, rolling on the linoleum

floor.

the door opened and something entered the

room which was still

dark.

it looked like a large cross but

it was only a beam scale.

“gotta weigh you,” said the nurse.

she was a big black woman,

kindly but determined.

“now?” I asked.

“yes, honey, come on, get on the

scale.”

I got off the bed and made my way over

there.

I got on.

I had trouble with my balance.

I was ill, weak.

she moved the weights back and

forth trying to get a

read.

“let’s see … let’s see … hmmm …”

I was about to fall off when

she finally said, “185.”

the next morning it was a male

nurse, a good fellow, a bit on the

plump side.

he rolled in and I stepped on the

scale.

he had a problem too, sliding the weights

back and forth, trying to get a

read.

“I can hardly stand,” I said.

“just a little longer,” he said.

I was about to topple off when he

said, “184.”

I went back to bed and

awaited the scheduled 6 a.m. daily

blood withdrawal.

something has to be

done, I thought.

I’m going to fall off of that

scale some morning and crack

my head open.

so at midday I got into

a conversation with the head nurse

who listened to my problem.

“well, all right,” she said, “we

won’t weigh you every

morning, we’ll only weigh you

3 times a week, Monday,

Wednesday and

Saturday.”

I thanked her.

“I’ll write an order on your

chart,” she said.

I don’t know what she wrote

on my chart

but they never weighed me

again

Monday, Wednesday,

Saturday

or any other day and I was there

in that hospital

for another two

months.

in fact, I never heard the hard sound

of that scale rolling down the hallway

again.

I think they stopped weighing

everybody

except maybe themselves

now and then.

Christ, the damned thing was

just too difficult to operate

anyhow.

the nurse was standing with her back to me,

saying, “I’ve got to get the air bubbles out of

the line.”

I began to cough and I coughed some more,

then I began to tremble, tremble and

shake and jump.

I couldn’t breathe, my face was burning

but the worst was my back, right down at the

end of the spine—the pain was black and

unendurable

and the next thing I knew was

the sound of loud buzzers

and they were rolling the bed out

of there, there were 5 or 6 female nurses,

there was an oxygen tank and then I was

breathing again, the tubes stuck in my

nostrils.

they rolled me down to a large room

across from the nurses’ station and it was

like in a movie, I was hooked up to a

machine that had little blue lines

dancing across the screen.

“do you still need oxygen?” one of

the nurses asked.

“let’s try it without.”

it was all right then.

“how much is this room costing me?”

I asked.

“don’t worry, we’re not charging

anything extra.”

after a while they came in with a

portable machine and x-rayed

me.

“how long am I going to be in this

room?”

“overnight or until somebody needs

it more than you do.”

then my wife was there.

“my god, I went to your room

and it was empty, bed and all!

why are you here?”

“they haven’t figured it out yet.”

“there must be a reason.”

“sure.”

well, I wasn’t dead and my wife

sat and watched the little lines

dance on the screen

and I watched the nurses

answering the phones and

reading things on clipboards

and actually it was rather

pleasant and almost

interesting, although there was

no tv in the room and I was

going to miss the Sumo tournament

on channel

18.

the next day the doctors said

they had no idea what had

caused the whole thing

and the nurses took my bed

and rolled me back to my

old room with the tiny window,

my trusty

urinal, and the little Christ

they had nailed to the wall

after my 3rd day

there.

the streets melt, I do not

smile often, I hold up these trembling white

walls.

the finish line beckons

while

the stables are full of fresh, young

runners.

the crowd screams for more action

as I don my green

bathrobe,

x-tough guy

dangling at the end of the

dream.

anything to say to the world,

sir?

no.

would you do it all over again?

no.

have you learned anything

from this experience?

no.

any advice for the young

poets?

learn to say “no.”

I really know nothing at all.

the hospital spins like a top,

spewing nurses throughout the

building.

I have escaped twice before

and now is the third

time.

slow death is pure

death, you can taste a little bit of it

each day.

I am amazed that other people

remain alive and healthy:

doing their duties,

bored and/or beastly.

they swarm about,

fill the streets and buildings.

these are the fortunate

unfortunates.

I stretch out upon the bed.

my poor wife, she must live with

this.

she is a strong, good

woman.

“you’re going to be fine,”

she says.

and so are:

the blue whale, the sleepy young

doctors practicing their vascular

and bariatric surgery, the simple

dark tone of

midnight.

I’ll see them all later in the forest along with the

giant

gorilla.

so much of my early life I was worried about paying

the rent, now something else is trying to move

me out of here, permanently,

and this landlord will accept no

excuses such as

“I’ll pay you next week for sure!”

notice has been served on me

and my final eviction looms.

but as in the old days, I continue,

go through the motions,

read the newspaper, stare at the walls

and wonder, wonder

how did it ever come to this,

this senselessness staring me down.

all my books don’t help.

my poems don’t help either.

nothing or nobody helps.

it’s just me alone, waiting, breathing,

pondering.

there’s nothing even to be brave about.

there’s nothing here at all.