Poetry Magazine, Chocolate Waters, October 2000

Poetry Magazine

Chocolate Waters

USA

The Groper

The first time I saw him
I was on my way to work.
He was oozing along, octopus-like,
the fishing hat he always wears
was slouched across his bobbing head.
“Can I take ya to dinner?”
he asks in passing.
It was ten in the morning.
I shouldn’t pass judgment.
He’s a lonely man
with prostitutes for company.
“Can I take ya to dinner?” he repeats.
It’s the Groper’s standard line.
He reels it out from doorways,
bus stops, red lights, sidewalk cafes.
Tonight at Marvin’s restaurant
he slumps across the table,
half-asleep, his fish-eyes rolling,
his head lolling
down toward his beach ball stomach.
The frayed Izod alligator
tacked across his shirt
is waiting.
Chuck, the owner, nudges him.
The Groper lifts his head,
casts his eyes around the room.
His teeth emerge, his mouth is gaping.
He lands upon me in the corner,
moves his lips as if to speak.
“No thanks,” I whisper,
“You’ve just eaten.”

False Alarm

Five in the morning,
light off-white and soundless.
Kittens on the chest-of-drawers,
motionless as knickknacks.
Their whiskers rustle.
I hear the buzz of planes.
Window rattles stiffly.
I expect the glass to shatter,
sockets of my eyes to melt.
My head is struck by lightning.
Earth explodes in halves, quarters,
rubble.
The cats come oozing out my ears.

Inside my blanket, warm, electric.
Cats asleep inside the cover of my arms.
Sun leaps through the window.
The day turns crisp
and trembles.

The Couple

giggling and tittering and turning
cartwheels over each other’s words,
they’re oblivious to the juke box,
the drunken actor’s dirty stories,
the countertop,
Madonna.
Engaging the bartender only
to order “one more.”

He’s 75. Italian.
Shirt starched white, natty blue tie,
slicked-back Santa Claus hair.
Only her reflection in his eyes.
She’s a few years younger, or older,
dressed in a dress that’s hot, red,
beggingly short.
A gold chain with Chinese symbols
that I don’t understand
dangles from her neck,
the tone of her skin indistinguishable
from the cameos adorning her ears.

She was mute for three years,
the loss of her voice the casualty of a stroke.
Then she met him.
“My sweetheart,” she confides in the Lady’s room.
In between complaints about her sinuses,
she beams how he bought her the necklace in China,
She chats merrily on - her sweetheart, her sinuses -
The necklace slips into the sink.
Remains behind, unnoticed.
On my way home I ease it back into her hand.
She squeezes my hand.
I want to tell her that I understand.
I am speechless.