Monopoly 1955

We start by fanning out the money, colored
like Necco wafers: pink, yellow, mint, gold.
From the first roll of the dice, differences widen:
the royal blues of Boardwalk and Park Place
look down their noses at the grapey immigrants
from Baltic and Mediterranean Avenues.
My grandparents coming from Italy in steerage
measured their gold in olive oil, not bank notes
and deeds. The man in the top hat and tuxedo
always holds the good cards. The rest of us
hope we can pay the Electric Company.
We know there is no such thing as Free Parking,
and Bank Errors are never in our favor.
In the background, Johnny Mathis croons
Chances Are from the cracked vinyl radio.
We played for hours, in those years
before television, on the Formica table,
while my mother coaxed a chicken,
cooking all day on the back burner, to multiply
itself into many meals. The fat rose to the surface,
a roiling ocean of molten gold.

Barbara Crooker, Gold (Cascade Press, 2013)

Moon

The moon is full tonight
an illustration for sheet music,
an image in Matthew Arnold
glimmering on the English Channel,
or a ghost over a smoldering battlefield
in one of the history plays.

It’s as full as it was
in that poem by Coleridge
where he carries his year-old son
into the orchard behind the cottage
and turns the baby’s face to the sky
to see for the first time
the earth’s bright companion,
something amazing to make his crying seem small.

And if you wanted to follow this example,
tonight would be the night
to carry some tiny creature outside
and introduce him to the moon.

And if your house has no child,
you can always gather into your arms
the sleeping infant of yourself,
as I have done tonight,
and carry him outdoors,
all limp in his tattered blanket,
making sure to steady his lolling head
with the palm of your hand.

And while the wind ruffles the pear trees
in the corner of the orchard
and dark roses wave against a stone wall,
you can turn him on your shoulder
and walk in circles on the lawn
drunk with the light.
You can lift him up into the sky,
your eyes nearly as wide as his,
as the moon climbs high into the night.

Billy Collins, a-poem-a-day-project.blogspot.com September 8, 2014 

Visitation Rites

from the outside it
looks like a college
campus, situated off the
highway, with a long road
that leads to the front
entrance, with large white
columns on either side,
rather than the psychiatric
hospital where my wife has
been for two weeks now,
because they said she was
deeply depressed, at age
sixty, writing strange
messages on back of photos
and speaking about death all
the time, the doctor advised
a few weeks of medication and
treatment, away from stress,
and unable to cope with daily
life, so now i come to see
her on visiting day, and i sit
in the waiting room while they
go to get her, watching the passing
parade of doctors and nurses, in this
antiseptic prison, mostly drug addicts,
and alzheimers here, and my wife
comes towards me, unbelievably pretty,
slim, her hair well done, smiling,
as we embrace…no one close to watch
us, and i feel guilty, having her
put away like this, so we sit for
awhile, and she tells me they are
taking good care of her, and she
is getting better, and then she takes
me to her room, to show me the bed and
well-used dresser, and we hold each other,
and i feel as if this is not us, like this,
but someone else, she tells me they are
having a dance down in the recreation
room, and asks if i want to go, of course,
so we go downstairs, where the others are
already dancing on the floor to a jukebox,
while others stand by to watch us, and we
dance together, hold each other, i feel her
body, just like the old days, and everyone
smiles and says we look good together, you
would think this was just a regular dance
somewhere on the outside, instead of a
mental hospital, and for awhile i imagine
that it’s really true, and i love her so
much, and hope there is a cure
so she can come home soon, and later
we go to the cafeteria for
dinner, and i get in line
with her, a long line, all
headed for the steam table,
and we sit down at a table
to eat, and my wife begins
to cry a bit, and asks me
when i can take her home…
she tells me she loves me,
and i tell her the same…
we then sit in the lobby,
and my wife seems tired now,
and not so spry as before,
she says she is sleepy, and
wants to go to bed, and soon
a nurse comes to take her gently
by the arm, to escort her to her
room…i hug her, and whisper that
i will be back next week, she nods,
turns away from me, and i watch her
disappear down the hall, my heart
crying, as i head for my car, to
return to my lonely home, where
we have lived for forty years,
some days are better than others.
this is one of the better ones.

Ed Galing, Rattle #86 2006

I Was Mean to You Today

Things were difficult
and I was impatient.
You were trying to explain
why I must reorganize the files
on my computer, why
they all have to have project numbers,
why I can't put them
where they've always been,
what the tax consultant said,
what you need for your report
to the Board of Directors,
and it boiled down to my files
have to be re-filed, and they
have to have titles with no more
than twelve letters to leave room
for project numbers,
and I said, Well, dammit.
And you said, Don't talk like that.

You sounded pained
and I was mean to you.
I was bored and tired
and mad, and you were
trying hard. Later,
I went out in the rain.
I went to the mall
and bought us both really
expensive pillows. Down
pillows with 100 per cent
cotton covers, 400 thread count.
I have lusted after them for years,
ever since Mama told me
that she asked Grandma,
who was 86 and dying,
"If you could have anything
in the world, what would it be?"
and Grandma answered,
"A down pillow" and Mama
didn't have enough money.
I bought two down pillows for us all,
to say I'm, sorry.

Pat Schneider, The Patience of Ordinary Things (Amherst Writers and Artists Press,2003)

After School on Ordinary Days

After school on ordinary days we listened
to The Shadow and The Lone Ranger
as we gathered around the tabletop radio
that was always kept on the china cabinet
built into the wall in that tenement kitchen,
a china cabinet that held no china, except
thick and white and utilitarian,
cups and saucers, poor people's cups
from the 5 & 10 cents store.
My mother was always home
from Ferraro's Coat factory
by the time we walked in the door
after school on ordinary days,
and she'd give us milk with Bosco in it
and cookies she'd made that weekend.
The three of us would crowd around the radio,
listening to the voices that brought a wider world
into our Paterson apartment. Later

we'd have supper at the kitchen table,
the house loud with our arguments
and laughter. After supper on ordinary
days, our homework finished, we'd play
monopoly or gin rummy, the kitchen
warmed by the huge coal stove, the wind
outside rattling the loose old windows,
we inside, tucked in, warm and together,
on ordinary days that we didn't know
until we looked back across a distance
of forty years would glow and shimmer
in memory's flickering light.

Maria Mazziotli Gillan, Italian Women in Black Dresses (Guernica Editions, Inc. 2002) 

Her Long Illness

Daybreak until nightfall,

he sat by his wife at the hospital

while chemotherapy dripped

through the catheter into her heart.

He drank coffee and read

the Globe. He paced; he worked

on poems; he rubbed her back

and read aloud. Overcome with dread,

they wept and affirmed

their love for each other, witlessly,

over and over again.

When it snowed one morning Jane gazed

at the darkness blurred

with flakes. They pushed the IV pump

which she called Igor

slowly past the nurses' pods, as far

as the outside door

so that she could smell the snowy air.

Donald Hall, Without (Houghton Mifflin Company, 1998)

Marriage Is a Bungee Jump

Marriage is a bungee jump off some box canyon
in Colorado, concession manned by a minion
from the fifties high on weed, beard he hadn’t brushed
since high school. The ropes felt new enough

and he swore he measured them, the fall to the rocks
a lovers’ leap eighty stories long.
He made us sign a waiver and pay in cash.
Folding the bills away, he slouched back to the shack

and high-fived a friend who passed the bottle back—
Done it again, like cupid. We heard a match strike,
the sizzle of hemp. We checked the ropes, the stiff knots
tied by someone who flunked that lesson in scouts.

We’d checked the charts, the geology of cliffs
and canyons, but no one knows which fibers split,
which granite ledges crack. On the edge of hope
for nothing we’d ever done, we tugged at the ropes,

both ropes, blessing the stretch and strain
with our bodies, a long time falling to the pain
and certainty of stop. Hand in hand we stepped up
wavering to the ledge, hearing the rush

of a river we leaped to, a far-off
cawing crow, the primitive breeze of the fall,
and squeezed, clinging to each other’s vows
that only death could separate us now.

Walt McDonald, Blessings (Ohio State University Press, 1998)