derelicts.
we just forget
ours.
in either case
it’s a hard
cold
wind.
I’m in bed.
it’s morning
and I hear:
where are your socks?
please get dressed!
why does it take you so long to
get dressed?
where’s the brush?
all right, I’ll give you a head
band!
what time is it?
where’s the clock?
where did you put the clock?
aren’t you dressed yet?
where’s the brush?
where’s your sandwich?
did you make a sandwich?
I’ll make your sandwich.
honey and peanut butter.
and an orange.
there.
where’s the brush?
I’ll use a comb.
all right, holler. you lost the brush!
where did you lose the brush?
all right. now isn’t that better?
where’s your coat?
go find your coat.
your coat has to be around somewhere!
listen, what are you doing?
what are you playing with?
now you’ve spilled it all!
I hear them open the door
go down the stairway,
get into the car.
I hear them drive away. they are gone,
down the hill
on the way to
nursery school.
at the window
I watch a man with a
power mower
the sounds of his doing race like
flies and bees
on the wallpaper,
it is like a warm fire, and
better than eating steak,
and the grass is green enough
and the sun is sun enough
and what’s left of my life
stands there
checking glints of green flying;
it is a giant disrobing of
care, stumbling away from
doing.
suddenly I understand
old men in rockers
bats in Colorado caves
tiny lice crawling into
the eyes of dead birds.
back and forth
he follows his gasoline
sound. it is
interesting enough,
with
the streets
flat on their Spring backs
and smiling.
yes, they begin out in a willow, I think
the starch mountains begin out in the willow
and keep right on going without regard for
pumas and nectarines
somehow these mountains are like
an old woman with a bad memory and
a shopping basket.
we are in a basin. that is the
idea. down in the sand and the alleys,
this land punched-in, cuffed-out, divided,
held like a crucifix in a deathhand,
this land bought, resold, bought again and
sold again, the wars long over,
the Spaniards all the way back in Spain
down in the thimble again, and now
real estaters, subdividers, landlords, freeway
engineers arguing. this is their land and
I walk on it, live on it a little while
near Hollywood here I see young men in rooms
listening to glazed recordings
and I think too of old men sick of music
sick of everything, and death like suicide
I think is sometimes voluntary, and to get your
hold on the land here it is best to return to the
Grand Central Market, see the old Mexican women,
the poor … I am sure you have seen these same women
many years before
arguing
with the same young Japanese clerks
witty, knowledgeable and golden
among their soaring store of oranges, apples
avocados, tomatoes, cucumbers—