sw00344fdl-entry6of9

Fond du Lac



Nine
-

                                                 Snickering off,
I pass George Webb's almost preconsciously
while biting into a piece of log cabin.
The temperature stretches itself yet
along the pebbles of my perspiration.
In Geyber's: pearls and diamonds.  Greta, Greta,
not till now, one thought of you.  Buenos Aires
shivers.  A Germ--.  Christ, help us; there's no
returning.  The bus depot's arch reminds 
me that the buses meet now farther north;
that the blind woman passing me perceives,
perhaps, as well as I.  Shall each minute
experience, Greta (girl too easy to love),
progress a man toward tunnel vision, give
him surer proof of his infinity?
Will this slim lady's purple hat/ become
an nth example, then, to dogmatize
some prejudice?  What matters it.


Ten
-

                                                 O crammed
profusion!  City?  Puke.  I yawp and gawk,
read that "The Fortune Cookie" will click
at/ the theatre before me; inhale
the warmth of marigold popcorn some kids
are buying in the carmel shop next door;
image the night a friend/ pissed on a walk--
there was no wind.  And who is strong enough
to care.  A barber pole.  This headline squawks:
"Sharp VC attack"--why not.  I squint
at men and words that/ advocate a Faith/
I do not understand.  Here is a bar,
there is another jewelry store, and there's
a novelty shop.  Things as they are.  But what?
what can we say we know, we feel, believe?
The Arcade: bowling.  So the skulls have rolled,
the hard, black balls of human power and skill;
so Main Street flicks, a space of free electrons,
vomit, song.  Pressing against the gases, flesh
and cloth seem dying blades of algae, caught
in a thick brook, disparate, desperate.
I wave at a brown convertible, friends of mine.
The driver honks.  Shouts and whistles disturb
his radio into the semi trembling
the parked car beside me; across this shoal
I oscillate through, in the bone-tight weeds
of a storefront display, a plastic car--
aPlymouth by Revell--interests me,
bends my nose to a pane again.  Above
an HO switcher, and three rubber perch,
a scum-green monster doll: who thinks to scare
me in--I would suppose--to save that engine
or/ to delight my younger sister's coming
birthday: presides.  But I am not impressed.
Outside the Arcade, three boys and a girl
chatter through smoke:  "--what she did to o' Lou,
I'd never want to--"  "Remember Chris?
Well, she's finally getting a divorce!"
"From Sambo?!"  "Yeh."  "You know, I always thought
that guy--"  Pulling the wooden, heavy door
open, I move up the stairs.  Pins are falling.
I listen for the strikes.  A housewives' league.
On alley nine a woman like a plum
hops to the line.  Her black and blue ball bumps,
rolls two-thirds of the lane/ quite straight, then hooks
to the left, tipping only the seven pin.
On alley six a slimmer gal lightly glides
to the line, letting her ball, barely heard,
go swiftly down the lane.  The pins all jump/
into the pit.  Her teammates cheer, applaud.
Another tray of beer goes out to ten.
Some of the wives are packing.  My thumb sticks
in a thumbhole.  I pluck it out, and head
back down the stairs just as a green balloon
and a laughing girl appear beside those four
I overheard when--"But Linn, what makes 
you so positive Chris will keep her kids?"
"I know her, numby.  She will."  "Okay, she will."
"Look, Rudy, Chris and I were buds. . . ."  The green
balloon floats back, and a passing nun's smile,
dipping into the little girl, pleases her.
As they round the bandying group, they arouse
in me St. Mary's and how nervously I wade
along Main.  Sand jets from the gutter, turns
and jabs at me.  My left eye itches, sinks;
flounders back up. 








 Fond du Lac: page 7
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Brian A. J. Salchert