Mercy Wears a Red Dress. David Craig
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lemon pekoe tea.
The bells ring on the tree then,
of their own accord. But there are no movies,
no Wonderful Lifes besides this one,
which just happened
as it sometimes does.
Yeats, once a raven, haystack
occasionally returns—
not so flinty as he could be in life.
He’s up for most sport, doesn’t seem
to mind that he’s not very good
at volleyball or field hockey—or that
it’s tough to move in that suit, cravat,
nez thing. He’s happy, and being tall
helps in all kinds of ways. Don’t
know for sure if he’s onto
the bigger road yet, but I hope so:
mistakes are just mistakes after all,
each gone soon enough, like the bad
in everybody’s life. I hope
to meet him, though he’ll probably
have moved on by then.
Maybe HD is with him, Pound as well—
who could certainly captain any team—
“Father and Gateway to the East.”
That had to count for something.
HD has to work off the Freud, WC
Williams, his sure pace; at the well,
always, it seems, at the well.
But I like to think that Cuchulain
has been comforted, his shroud completed,
all these years after the mummy dance.
Most everyone you want to, I suspect,
you’ll get to see over there, if you
get over the humps yourself that is.
I like to think of WB lying down
in a meadow his language helped create:
a nice blue moss interspersed, all
the trees you want. Other folk,
fans, as well, real and otherwise.
The high “e”s will offer just
the right amount of resistance
as you recline; recumbent liquids,
consonants making no end
to that repose.
Birds would lace the edges,
and you’ll probably be able to hear
the sound of distant laughter. Maybe
his chords, notes, are like the future,
calling him, us. Maybe it was
always like that—nothing can take
what he’s given, nor the care
with which he gave it.
And his friends, family, politicos?
They’re all laughs, arms about
the shoulder now. The good
is the good, after all, and that
was what brought them to him
in the first place.
His life—a life like yours, mine,
but not at all like either;
a worthwhile stop, short or long,
on the road to more.
Pat’s face tints
a cigarette grey. But that doesn’t
seem to slow him down. He’s tended
his machine shop for forty years, providing,
arrives at every family get-together
without flags or roses. Nothing, except him,
is ever about that.
I don’t know how he does it,
want to be like him; but it is too late.
I have a different job and a family
that wouldn’t fit into his house.
They would require different curtains,
confections, their own puppy.
So while it’s true we all usually do the best
we can; his is clearly better than mine.
He’s not the only one like that, of course.
There are far too many of those good types
around this Catholic University, (so many
holy people, you can’t count them)
sandals I can’t loose.
Thankfully, they don’t ask,
or wear them, except in the summer,
like that Orthodox Jew Linda and I met
walking through downtown Pittsburgh
one summer eve. He thought I was
of his tribe, was collecting funds
for something holy. I had
no money, but wanted to bend down
and kiss his feet—didn’t.
Some wimpery lasts forever.
Pat would understand that:
he’s been in the navy—
he has this reel-to-reel with all
the golden oldies on it: “Last Kiss,”
by J. Frank Wilson, “Tammy’s in Love.”
Somebody like that would never lie to you.
Larry fights a Rottweiler
It was something he had to do.
The thing was dragging an old woman
across his lawn by her ankle.
That would have been hard
for anyone to ignore.
He’s got scars now, war wounds,
but seems happy enough—
if you don’t count the personal issues.
(His wife left him, but comes back
periodically to clean.)
I had free tickets, took him once
to a Browns game, all these people
on the Rapid Transit with faces painted
orange, barking like dogs.
Must be something about the town.
We cannot win, but are legion—
though I’m thinking, too, that what
owns us might go deeper, better.
In the end, I don’t think we believe
in winning; I mean,
whose life is like that?
At any rate, the two of us
were