This isn't the river, pirates, a boy cross-dressed to knock on a cabin in nowhere, night, and fog—but then, why not? Five days overcast supposed to break, and the woman at the next table wants her friend to understand it isn't his fault. He's just careless, the way men are; it's his foreign style—Spanish, North African? Can't she forgive him? The woman who lived in that cabin in the woods knew all along the girl in the bonnet was a boy. His fingers couldn't thread the needle. She just didn't know where he came from, or why. The gang leaders say they've come to clean up the streets, make it safe for the old. The four I saw slouched in the convertible were laughing, a sunny day, gold and diamonds sparkling in their ears as they squealed away from the light. No one saw the gun, but I wasn't going to catch those eyes.
     The friend's never thought of him "that way," but he always goes "too far." Once he grabbed her ass in public as if it were a joke. She can't take another winter. We're all suckers for this music, guitar ringing like bells, delicate and slow. The plane leaves early tomorrow, and they're hugging now, both of them almost beautiful. The one who's leaving doesn't know how long she'll stay there.
     Eventually, of course, the raft lands, the trip's over, and the rest is farce. The kids love it, and we all go to sleep looking forward to the next installment. If you think about it too much, though, you'll be disappointed. We love the story of gang bangers converting, and they love the publicity; this must be the best world after all. But they're not turning in their guns. Too bad the baseball strike ruined the season. Then it's a few years later, and a spot of sun washing the table. The new couch. That music.

Parking Lot With Circus

The lawyer quit, went back to the old school to learn a different job, reading the news. He'll move to another state, "find out what's really going on," tell the truth. Broad daylight, caulking windows, and someone boosted the ladder we stored in the gangway five years. How about that bridge with one end stuck in the air, the crane sure it wouldn't move lodged in a joint and all the traffic sent the other way? Murder every day. Light drizzle. Whoever dismembered that girl when her car broke down in the country ought to be shot. After the fair trial, of course. A few more minutes, a phone call to finish business, then home. The whipped cream always sinks into the coffee too fast, though the taste is all we hoped.
     And if the story you planned never sold, that doesn't mean it isn't convincing. Something about the machinery not quite fresh enough, wrong wires half frayed or never invented in the first place—someone will believe it.
     It's like the circus we went to—small and a little sleazy, but perfect in the open air. Ok, so the same elephants laid down the same way twice and they called it two acts. And it would've been nicer if we weren't stuck so far back, if the clowns had been turned our way. The new President may not make things better, but the kids' new school is all we hoped. They know how to shoot. And when their turn comes, they'll have a chance to duck the war, make their way to the border. Meantime, I'll rub your feet, blot out the rest. Then we'll go to the ball game this afternoon. It's the last one of the season, and even when our team loses again, we'll call it fun.

The Next Winter

They've found a molten pillar stretching through the mantle: we're not where we thought. We're drifting, and something else is pushing us around. Understand, this isn't complaint; I'm actually looking forward to dinner no matter the food, the usual company raising its din, whiskey, then screaming. At the end, with a little luck, there's sleep. Not what we imagined? Too bad, I suppose— On the other side of the world, the man who tried to save his country's farmers from oil is hanged. In our own desert, they're stealing treasures from the ancient dead. It may be history, but no one needs the broken jars. The signal the suburb counted on failed and more children were killed. Still, it's a long way from here and we don't know any of them. The sex is still out there, a guerilla whose arrival we pray for, as if it's the weapon we need to save us. Hindustan for Hindus only, the popular fascists cry. Just keep telling those wonderful stories, the letter that came from the Coast said yesterday. Maybe the shaking stops, and we can believe "the sky is pure and cold" as the next winter descends.

Barry Silesky is author of a book of or prose poems, One Thing That Can Save US ( Coffee House Press) and two collections of verse. He has also written a biography of Lawerence Ferlinghetti (Warner Books) and is at work on the biography of John Gardner. He edits ACM (Another Chicago Magazine).

 Barry

 Silesky