Sunset Limited
Limited indeed!
So much that sunset
can not do.
It can not put an end to grief,
to disappointment or malaise,
to the fear of cancer settled in the lungs,
to the longing for a husband
who left three years ago,
to the emptiness of children's rooms,
nor even to the sudden remembrance
that the dog is dead.
It can not promise that the coming night
holds reconciliation over a midnight supper,
a chance encounter with a friend,
humility before the wonder of the stars,
or even sleep.
Can't promise protection
against attack
between the cab and the doorstep,
against rape
by stranger or by guest,
against the dreams that linger
when we wake at 3:18.
It can not vouch for the day to follow:
that work will inspire,
the answer come clear,
television improve,
friends forgive,
the lost be found,
the dead recalled,
peace achieved.
Holds no assurance that on the morrow
someone will call,
someone remember,
someone ask a favor,
someone come to share a meal,
someone offer a dog.
No guarantee
that mail will go beyond bills,
that a phone call will finally lead to an offer,
that a new song on the radio will make a difference,
that prayer will prove possible and honest,
that anything will be different
by the next sunset.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Community Sauna
The women
first
while the men
pretend
indifference.
Then
the men,
while the women
pretend
disgust.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Directives For Making Tea
Fill the kettle just so,
a little more than enough
but not so the water
take forever
to boil,
and set it on the gas
turned high.
Select the cup, the mug,
not too small, so the tea tastes bitter,
nor yet too big, so the tea tastes bland.
And attend to color and pattern too.
Don’t swipe your wife’s favorite,
she may want a cup too
soon,
But your daughter’s is o k,
’cause she’s away.
And then the tea bag.
It’s not naïve to trust
the company to make
each bag the same, or nearly so,
so it doesn’t matter which:
just pick one up
and drop it in.
Next comes the first wait.
The water rumbles in the kettle—
the watched pot—
then rises to silence just before
the whistle blows.
Unplug the spout,
tip the kettle
and pour the water out
upon the waiting parcel,
the strange paper folded and stapled
around the exotic foliage.
And then the second wait:
three or four minutes to do some little task,
put away the dishes
get the mail,
read the comics,
take a whiz.
Now you may remove the tea bag
(but I never do).
stir in the sugar and the milk,
or not—
options at last
after all the obligatory steps—
and take your tea
to where it goes down
best.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Sorry, Officer”: Summer School, c. 1976
Strolling back to the graduate dorm
at three o’clock in the morning,
a pair of sandals strapped to his feet,
a pair of shorts slung over his shoulder,
and a Springsteen tune
balanced on his beer-toned baritone,
he meets a campus cop.
Shifting the baritone
into apology,
he slides the shorts
up over his haunches
and strides blithely on.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On a Winter Night,
After Reading
“Floral Decorations for Bananas”
by Wallace Stevens
Complaining of neglect,
A lady blue as ice
Has asked me for advice,
A thing I’d not expect—
That one of such a hue
Should ask me what to do:
It hardly seems correct.
And yet I can’t forget,
The opinion of a minion
May be a sound opinion.
So, though we’ve only met,
I offer this advice
To the lady blue as ice:
Consider the effect.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Song Of Papageno
To the garden of lights I ran, chasing a sparrow.
Hundreds around me nodded and smiled,
Faces I knew and faces unknown,
And I in the garden, alone and a child.
In the garden of lights I plucked up a candle,
Tested the flame, and tasted the pain,
Poured gobbets of wax on one battered sandal,
Spat out the light, and set it again.
In the garden of lights I danced a bolero
While stereo speakers played Bach and the Stones.
Crimson and azure the candles danced with me:
We danced with the birds and the foul rags and bones.
In a garden of lights afloat in a void,
Before and behind, all my mornings and nights,
Crimson and azure and fragile as candles --
A child with a sparrow in the garden of lights.
__________________________________________
William Bernard McCarthy's latest book, Cinderella in America, is an anthology of American versions of classic folk and fairy tales. He has poems forthcoming in The Folklore Muse, a collection of fiction, poetry, and essays by American folklorists, to be published by the Utah State University Press.