sw00340fdl-entry2of9

Fond du Lac



One
-

Ring the bridge rail!  Open wide, blood, bones,
will!  Your concerns are with the now--what is;
its meaning; not with what you want it to seem!
If rivers scrub low through arrowhead/ mud,
nudging twigs at their minnows, soaking butts,
chugging sludge/ chemical refuse, flashing white
bass/ swallows/ skies, submit, tampering heart:
Look: here a hurtling bag, a sliding box,
becomes at times a pigeon, or a dog;
but today the air swings hammock-like,
does not deceive, while pigeons wrinkle down
from riding over Fond du Lac, and scuffle
to their nests under the storage bins' roof,
black from the dust of anthracite; today
mongrels mix, tumble their beige and umber
coats into the garden of oily weeds
by the Milwaukee Road industrial track,
somersault yelps to the river's edge,
stop, ruggedly scurry, chase up the bank,
shiver, and hurrying off for the bridge
at Forest, run my sight.  
                                 Those several boys
arguing there--beyond them beads of cars
jerk, slip their ways--wonder if I know
any of those guys?  The puniest kid
seems--ya!  Split.  Split!  Look at him come, whipping
around the guard rail (kick at the mutts), pegged
tan pants, brown curly hair, an aqua shirt--
faded--its sleeves cut off & its tails popping,
black Cuban heels quivering, pointing back!
No, I guess I don't know them.  The two
who started out after him, out on the bridge
again with their leader, rough-up the kid
they have held.  Swallows skitter, people pass;
and the three toughs, like a giant ant, drag
their prey down somewhere, unbothered.  This one,
bewildered, turns, races up to the walk
and slows, glaring at me as if I were 
an evasive punching bag; then skirts on by.
What I fantasize he schemes intrigues me
almost enough to follow him.  I might
enjoy--however, my thoughts--Lakeside Park
is greener, riper.


Two
-

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hailstones, cobblestones--
in that swayback third of a block from Macy
to this Mayville spur, I remember both,
lodging a score of tires in ice; uneven
and bowled, forcing the newsboys' bikes through slush,
skating their wheels, hammering papers loose.
Hail again?  Perhaps.  But the street's smooth now;
slowly, erratically, ruddy bricks
descend from the Reporter Building's frame,
scabiosa turning chrysanthemum,
while across First the Post Office sorts, feels
the thoughts of thousands.  In several years,
what it will be, I do not know.  Bright cars,
dented cars, young girls skipping, men with canes,
horns, yells, a lady reaching--kneeling down--
for a dropped dime, three businessmen converging,
two six-foot boys with a mail cart; a friend 
I won't hello because I can't remember
her name--the courthouse clock is wrong again.






 Fond du Lac: page 3
 -



Brian A. J. Salchert