Robert VanderMolen

When Ronnie’s husband stepped out of the shower She spotted bite marks on his buttocks I was so listless I wished the dog could talk

Past the fountain out of repair And the boarded diner A small studio You’d never told anyone about Where old clothes have remained Right where you’ve dumped them Side by side With random notes and sketches When someone close to you Has a different idea of what you represent He insisted You’ll write a check for the loan There were other misjudgments As well. Exits were being blocked Down every hall I walked Until a sort of muscle memory— Well, I knew it all along, of course, But thought it was in the future, It rested like a memory— This desire For a place respecting anonymity Oiling your .38 Special, Like a criminal readying for benefits A bottle of Jack Daniels— This and more Shaded by echoing buildings With a glance toward the harbor The water rough with small debris Today

When you wake up after twelve hours The stove is cold, there's ice in the water bucket — clouds outside and snow, the noise of a crow, The only sound; until your wife cries From an upper bunk, Honey, I'd like some coffee. Luther chuckles. I nod, excuse myself  for the men's room Next to me stretches a teacher Who once warned me not to get married Too early. Elderly now, but having done well In real estate as a second career. He says Well, well, as if  he can't recall my name. But buys me a drink and talks of  his wayward Daughter. When he mentions her married last name I tell him I have met her, but leave off at that    . . . He squints like a badger. In my wife's family, he resumes, After a jostling by a drunken salesman, there's a Sort of stupid gene that runs through the whole outfit, Being half  Finnish, half  Dutch — or maybe something Cancelled something    . . .    I notice a protuberance, a small growth At the edge of  his eye, hanging like a broken thread I always thought, I say, your daughter had a charming Personality. He hunches his shoulders. Waking to dread, The debts of  dread — but I couldn't help him. Neither did I want to. On the way out I spot my first wife chatting with a small-time gangster — She flutters a wave my way, a Victorian flutter

You can never tell By the looks of a frog How high it can leap, Said her Auntie Ott. Haley's hair flips up and down As she moves in her hard shoes, Her leather coat for winter Is lengthy and sways, some stains Mottling the bottom— Elegant windows in decline That at one time One could climb through, French imitation Nailed shut for decades. In shadow Pigeons peck in dirty snow Massed against the closest wall. What her hair will look like someday, She surmises. But otherwise Isn't troubled by the future. Don't walk like a duck, Men don't like it, said Auntie Ott. Not necessarily, responded her grandmother, As she brushed a crumb onto a saucer— Playing cards, stories of earlier poverty. As a girl she pretended To be as worried as they Whether Bobby would be drafted And killed in the war. Maybe she's important in art Or decoration, supposes the student Adjusting his pack— As the light changes, he steps out But she banks around the corner Behind him, purseless, gloveless, Passing a restaurant, a coin store, A key shop—owners staring over the street Wishing they were younger. Or lived in an earlier time. Which is partly the fault Of late winter. Clittering ice In trees of Veteran's Park. . . Lightly swinging her arms now, Heading uphill, growing distant, Like a figure studied In Auntie Ott's Utrillo print— Stick-like, scarecrow-like— To her right, a converted house Looking vaguely like a shrunken Monticello. . . Cream-colored barriers Of plowed snow as sun sprays More volume. . . A moment of deception There's not much that can be done, Said the city, when the oaks Were removed for curb repair. The dome fell off the theatre. A policeman peering east, frozen. Just as the museum is shuttered Next to the blank bowling alley (which is our other perspective). Haley has never felt trapped, Though the possibilities, occasionally, Have skirted about like sparrows. A jet crosses the sky. Followed by its vibration. What she found sustaining She learned in college. Where she goes is no one's business Either. Neither is she worshipped And adored—Auntie Ott Would be dismayed. Though not entirely

When I think of that room I see the de Kooning at the end of the hall Sometimes rain on the long windows Or the tinkering of drops on the skylight But not Yvon Splashing Scotch into a cocktail glass Otherwise fastidious— In retrospect I should have asked her more About the famous jazz guitarist She had been engaged to But that much was true— Even after she bought me a pocket knife Sheathed in velvet Every young man needs a knife She informed her group But in the restaurant her friends Eyed me like a turnip. One that talked— While she was away at her office, I tried to read Her unfinished essay On the vagaries of diplomacy Reclining On a rug of embroidered storks The two small Rodins Seemed misplaced A grand piano She didn’t play (though I did, affecting a controlled passion while gazing over rooftops at carefully maintained gardens)— I don’t remember her smell I don’t recall her fingers The last I heard she was living in Barcelona She never did learn to cook Now her letters are worth money

As if  anyone has the desire    . . . Vickey trailed off, pouring another lager There'll be nothing left But fur and bone, as my lawyer once explained To my ex, she resumed, tapping a long cigarette On the bar. My, you're a bit snarky tonight Said Luther. Maybe you need a change of  venue, A beach with your breath on it Oh, she replied, nodding towards the far corner booth, These writers are so obnoxious I wish they'd find a new place to complain. Ha, said Hillary, they wouldn't know a good story If  it bit 'em in the butt. Plus, added Vickey There's always the lurking danger One may launch into a speech on human nature. I'll back that, said Rick (who, when animated Would lick his index finger and sweep it back and forth As if quickly turning pages of a catalog) They're just a bunch of spare parts clogging a garage. Hear, hear, exclaimed Hillary, let's give it to the boors And literary whores. How a bonfire magnifies everything. Or that early Skift of snow across brown meadows When you still haven't canned the peaches. Settle down Rick, said Luther, this isn't Chicago Indeed, Vickey countered, this town used to be known As Little  Jerusalem by certain parties in the old days All the churches. And hypocrite politicians, Added Luther. Well, it's all downhill from the north Where wanness began its mission, continued Rick, Waving his empty pint. Jesus, you can be a bore, said Vickey All heroes become bores eventually, instructed Hillary But did you know when Rick was born He looked like a little worm. His aunt told me — Luther, studying her profile, said I was a little worm too

She looked nearly the same But when I hugged her There was substantially more To her—no doubt as with me. She fibbed as I did at the edge Of curb under the streetlight As spiders dropped like tiny Parachutes—they were difficult To see. On the periphery Of good luck, I thought, Revisiting her quirky habits And expressions, what I eventually Found so bothersome. Except When I glanced at my watch I discovered I was trembling Like a small-time embezzler. I see, she said, you must have An appointment. The driveways And hedges funneling back Into darkness, into someone else's Childhood, where speech was An obstacle. Wild turkeys Approaching across the lawn. Oh no, I said, I'm just so pleased To see you. But that didn't Make sense either. She cocked Her head, a woman with grown Twins and three conniving husbands. Even my toes felt damp. I remember, She said, when you'd lay your head On my lap, I'd stroke your hair— I didn't recall. Though I thought That would be a good idea now. But I'm married, I said. I own My own business. It would have Been helpful if I'd planned Some banter. I'm a high school Principal, she told me, I don't put up with horseshit From anyone. I brushed the arm Of her jacket—she merely stared. A door slammed. A grown idiot Drooled in an attic somewhere down The lane. I had another image As well, one that held an odor Of patchouli oil. As she stepped Forward without caution, placed a hand On my neck. Take me, she insisted, To those rivets of flame following Wire—because this is it, You'll never have another Hour. I immediately felt Calmer...