hoarfrost sheets
of frozen lace
drape the dormant soldiers
on Gate Avenue
and tinkle, tinkle
in the northern dark
like crystal memories
of Lara’s Siberia
tinkle, tinkle
sleeping gray soldiers
I see your cold breath
through the hoarfrost sheets
of frozen lace
and hum
her theme briefly
secrets and gossip
are whispered with fear— take care
for these walls have ears
An extended care facility. It is evening and the room is dimly lit. The view is of the side of a bed with the side rails up. A very old Asian man has propped himself up. He is in a hospital gown and a sweatshirt. His facial skin is waxy and white, the eyes sunken but agitated. He is missing one leg above the right knee. The man is shaking the bed rails with all of his limited strength.
A woman in black slacks and a beige cardigan, with a cross at her neck is standing to the side holding a bible. She is trying to calm the old man.
MR. FONG I want out of the cage!
NATALIE I’m sorry, Mr. Fong, I don’t understand what you want me to do.
MR. FONG Get me out of the cage!
NATALIE Please lay back down, Mr. Fong.
MR. FONG Nurse, I want out… I want out.
NATALIE Oh, I…I see. I’m not the nurse, Mr. Fong, I can’t… I can’t let you out.
MR. FONG I want rice… I want rice! Can you get me rice?
NATALIE I can call the nurse and she could…
Mr. Fong lays back down and starts to rock his head, left to right, moaning loudly.
MR. FONG Uuuuuuuuuuhhhnn uuuuuuuuuuuhhhnn-aaaah
NATALIE It’s okay, it’s okay, Mr. Fong! I’ll see what I can do. Please lay down.
MR. FONG Uuuuuuuuuuhhhnn…
NATALIE Oh, I don’t know…
MR. FONG Uuuuuuuuuuhhhnn…
NATALIE There, squeeze my hand… I’ll rock with you…uuuuuuuuuuhhhnn-aaah. I’ll stay here.
MR. FONG Uuuuuuuuuuhhhnn-aaah
NATALIE That’s it…rest now. I’ll get you some rice.
* * * * *
Fifteen minutes later. Natalie stands in front of a nurses station down the hall. A nurse in blue scrubs is standing behind the desk.
KATHY How was he, Natalie?
NATALIE Uhm…that’s not in the manual— We managed…together. He’s sleeping now.
KATHY I couldn’t do what you do.
NATALIE He wants some rice. Can we get him some?
KATHY Yes, I’ll call down to food services.
NATALIE Does he have any family?
KATHY No, not that we know of. No one has been to see him since he came to us. He’s ninety-five, maybe he outlived them all.
NATALIE How long do you think?
KATHY He has gangrene. A day or two, at the most.
NATALIE Kathy, can you do me a favor?
KATHY Of course.
NATALIE Can I be the last entry on his chart?
KATHY I guess so. Why?
NATALIE I think that the last entry on Mr. Fong’s exit should be something kind and spiritual rather than those few words of science…
KATHY Oh, I see. I get that… Sure, Natalie, I’ll let you know.
NATALIE Thanks, Kathy. Good night.
KATHY Good night, Natalie.
met a guru
(yogi, i should say)
in a veil and a turban of white
from L.A. last night
she was a charmer too
(is, i should say)
she asked us to do
many strange things
with our bodies, and my
trains of thought transitioned
to one thought of discomfort, then pain
and i was a lotus warrior
for my body and mind
(actually, for my knees and lower back)
and i was an eagle
flapping his wings
(actually, my aching arms)
while the guru sat
on pillows eating seeds
and my spine
is not yet
a serpent
waiting to be
awakened—
maybe
someday
our breath of fire exhaled, panting
like the ghosts of gurus past, ranting
the songs of kundalini wailed, chanting
pow pow fingers pointed, cramping
now, her white turbaned husband
he was a dapper dan, with his white beard
and tight white leggings
dan sat cross-legged beside her, with his huge gong
doing everything we did
until it came time for shavasana
(thank god, for shavasana)
then it was, literally, bang a gong
and T.Rex woulda freaked
dan was a great gong player
(is, i should say)
i’ve never heard anything like it
it was loud, then musical
softening into a trembling timbre
(and my timber back softened)
and rising to a crazy crescendo
(and my mind was not crazy)
then the lights came on
we rolled up our mats
ate good cookies
and we met the guru
with the blissful life force
behind her eyes
so i
met a guru from L.A.
(yogi, should i say?)
and her husband
the guy with the gong
and maybe
someday
i’ll
uncoil
the snake
uhms and aahs
with hands in pockets
shuffle feet, slightly slouching
mumble, mumble
something, something—
i shouldn’t bother with intros
unless i write them
i should just read the goddamn poem
polka dot crinolines
tight skirts smokin’
leather jackets and lettermans
t-shirts jokin’
paradin’ drive-ins
is pick-up pimpin’ down
in whitewall town
the ducktails turn goofy
hey, wanna get in?
baby, come for a ride
snuggle up, sweety
close to my side
the chicks get choosy
hey, buy me a malt
baby, buy me a beer
you think i’m made of money?
no, but you got nice wheels, honey
so let’s get outta here
gotta cigarette?
cruisin’ is snoozin’, ducky
do you wanna get lucky?
go faster
go faster
stop, i’m hot
i gotta be home by midnight
red light stuntin’
kissin’ and gruntin’
light it up
and lay it down
in whitewall town
standin’ brake
stomp that gas
poppin’ clutches
a chance you take
spinnin’ is losin’
do you hear the joke?
here comes the fuzz
that’s expensive smoke
the leaves are falling
on Madonna Drive
Mission Hill’s
in mist
and I can’t see the cross
at the top
today
the old school house is locked
looks like it stopped teaching
long before this green was planted
long before these trees reached
forty feet
but the picture’s pretty and
I take a deep breath of it all
because the old saints in black
are calling, tapping me on the shoulder
see, boy, see?
smell, boy, smell
feel, boy, feel
crunchy orange leaves
scurry, then fly
on Madonna Drive
Mission Hill’s
been kissed
and I can see the cross
anyway
squatting on the hot sidewalk, feeling ripples
in a sunny subdivision, the bored torturer
melts ants with the magnifying glass— and
pulls the rubber bumper off his sneaker
I remember rippin’ through the Rathole
that yellow tunnel under twenty-two tracks
109th Street’s downtown rumble
with two-way close contact
the roar was muffler reverb
pedestrians could get soaked
a truck once took my sideview
as the exhaust vapors hung like a cloak—
but after seventy-two years of subterranean news
it was Rats In Peace to the Rathole Blues
sidewalk surfers ride over cracks no trouble
pink chalk lines, gum— the hopscotch bubble
twirling ropes singing double-dutch skipped
—and my summer cone is chocolate dipped
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troysherdahl 