Any and All

You draw nearer to see her more closely
the blind woman by the bronze doors

of the old Merchants Bank, her mouth
wide open as if in a silent roar,

several dollars stuffed in the pockets
of her mink coat. She is easy to forget

a few days later when you think of her
—not long. The phone is ringing.

You put Byrdman on hold. Polen
wants you in his office immediately.

The lawyers from Mars and the bankers
from Switzerland have arrived to close the deal,

the money in their heads articulated
to the debt of the state of Bolivia.

How much later the Croatian woman
who empties the wastebaskets laughs

when you answer you’ve been better
and you’ve been worse. How much sooner

you’re told not to tell anyone Byrdman’s
grandfather was a Jew. How much No. 54

Wall Street, emblematic reality of extreme
speculations and final effects.

The other evening at a party in the West Sixties
you say as much. None of them knows

what any of it is worth, you say to yourself
later, spitting into an unexpected breeze.

Yellow moons of street lamps on Ninth Avenue
obscured by atmospheric soot and fog,

in the Twenties empty windows of butcher shops,
factories and warehouses without names,

no taxis, the green light behind the window
of a corner bar. A young man sporting muscles,

a woman he might own on his arm, clearly
doesn’t like the way you look or look at him,

lets his leash out enough for his wolfdog
to just nip your leg. Another day

you contemplate your strategy:
think about how they think about you

thinking about them and the look on your face
to prove you have the proper attitude.

Let no laughter reveal moods. Let
Charlotte Stone reveal that her father

over the weekend purchased a peninsula in Rhode Island
for Harry and her, let her teeth

be too large and too gray: there is blood
and there is blood-letting; this is not your blood.

Shut the door and wait. Someone else’s father
forgives you when you know not what you do,

reminds you, “He’s a weasel but he’s my friend.”
You’re a monkey and you work for him,

decide for him whether his clauses should be restrictive,
whether to replace every “any” with “all.”

:: Lawrence Joseph, Curriculum Vitae (Pittsburgh, 1988)


Santiago: Five Men in the Street

Four fellows in orange uniforms
and a fifth in a dismal suit play
pick up soccer in the street. It's their

lunch break, and the ball, a kid's beach ball,
might not make it trough this half hour
of pleasure, as the men leap and kick

this flimsy target of blue plastic.
The guy in the suit is a clerk who
gets yelled at. The ones in orange sweep

out a garage for a boss who thinks
a uniform looks sharp. The hours
they travel by bus to get to work,

the pennies they get paid, the verbal
abuse of those who need to prove they're
cut from better cloth--all disappear

in this thirty minutes in the street.
It's the end of winter and the tightly
folded leaves of the plane trees begin

to release their delicate green plumes.
The clerk lunges for a kick that shoots
the ball smack against a metal gate.

Goal! shout the others. The clerk raises
his hands above his head as his pals
whack him on the back. Take this moment

and freeze it--five guys grinning, showing off
their lousy teeth. Not one will ever
find an easy death and each will know

a hundred forms of grief. Having gone
splat, the ball deflates on the pavement.
The five men collapse beneath a tree

and the clerk hands rounds his cigarettes.
They light up, sigh, and watch the leaves
unfurl their little flags of green.

:: Stephen Dobyns, in Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review #2 (1993)



They are from everywhere
the quiet Indians in the stalls
of the Santa Fe market
and they watch the Anglos
bending over the pots and the rugs
and holding up the jewelry
to find the maker's name.

Just off the plaza
a woman of the Sac and Fox
honored for her quillwork
plays an old game of chance
tossing pieces of bone
in a shallow wooden bowl.

:: Walter Edens, in Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review #6 (1995)