We Are Still Married (37 page)

A gentleman of means stood in
The exclusive Club de Joie,
Enjoying a tall glass of gin,
When suddenly he saw
A beggar lying at the door,
His face so pale and sad—
He thought he'd seen that man before.
He said, “Excuse me. Dad?”
“Oh, don't mind me,” his father said.
“I'm only in your way.
I'm weak and sick, I'll soon be dead,
Perhaps later today.
I only came because I thought
That maybe you could find
A—no, I'm sorry, I forgot
You've so much on your mind.
Ah! My heart! The light grows dim!
I'll leave you now. Goodbye!”
The fine young man looked down at him
And this was his reply.

That evening he was standing
Underneath a bright marquee,
There to attend the gala ball
Dressed so handsomely,
Chatting with Mr. and Mrs. Saks
At the discotheque,
When suddenly a pile of rags
Reached out and touched his leg.
“Hello,” she said. “It's me. Your mom.
Sorry to get in your way.
I guess you had forgotten me
And Dad, but that's okay.
I'm only your poor old relative,
There's no reason you should care,
But do you think that you might have
A couple bucks to spare?
I nursed you as a loving mother
And held you on my knee,
And now you've thrown us in the gutter,
Your poor old dad and me.
I am your flesh, I gave birth
To you—oh, the pain that night!
And now you're treating me like dirt,
Your mom. But that's all right.
I forgive. I understand.
You enjoy yourself, my child.”
He took her gently by the hand
And spoke to her and smiled.

He arrived at quarter to three
At his mansion on the hill
And sat in his library
And sipped his port, until
He heard, upstairs, a child cough
And cry:
Dad, I want you.
He found her with her blanket off,
So feverish from the flu,
Tears streaming down the angel face.
He tried to comfort her.
She cried, “I was looking everyplace.
I didn't know where you were.
I heard some voices, I was scared,
It was too dark to see.
I thought that you had disappeared
'Cause you were mad at me.
Whydja go, Dad? Tell me. Huh?
Tell me what I did.
Left alone without no one,
Lying sick in bed.
All alone with no one here
But my old cat. And Mom.”
The father brushed away a tear,
He trembled but was calm.

He sat downstairs a little while
And thought about his kin:
His dad, his mother, and his child.
Just then the cat walked in.
She sat and stared into his face
With cool relentless eyes;
He felt the judgment in her gaze
So righteous and so wise.
She looked at him till he fell down
In anguish at her feet
And wept and threw his arms around
That cat, his shame complete.

He did not see the cat's expression.
She smiled to hear his sad confession.
She knew that, using this technique,
She would get tuna all next week.

There was a boy whose name was Jim
And although life was good to him
And gave him home and food and love,
He thought that it was not enough,
That it was time for him to do
Those things that he'd been told not to.

 

“I am ten and must be free
To enjoy what's been denied to me,
And I shall do it all,” he said.
“I'll spread some black dirt on my bread,
And spill food on my Sunday clothes
And I shall put beans up my nose.”

 

Everything that to this kid
His mom said, “Don't,” he went and did.
He gulped his sandwich, and dragged his feet,
Threw bags of garbage in the street,
Leaned out windows, ran down halls,
And wrote exciting words on walls.

 

Until at last, at half past two,
He could not think of more to do.
Anger, gluttony, and pride—
He'd drunk and smoked and cursed and lied,
Stuck out his tongue, dropped his britches,
And shoved old ladies into ditches
And other things good folk condemn—
He'd done it all by 3:00 P.M.,
And satisfied his appetite:
Now what was left to do that night?

 

From this, dear children, you should sense
The value of obedience.
When I say, “Don't,” I mean, “Postpone
Some wickedness for when you're grown,
For naughty flings and wild rampages
Are much more fun at later ages.”

 

Now brush your teeth and go to bed.
And after all your prayers are said,
Lie in the dark as quiet as mice
And whisper one word that isn't nice.
Don't say ten, a whole big group,
Just say one, like “panda poop.”

 

Oh, what a thrill from one bad word!
Say it a second time and third.
“Poop” is a vulgar word, and vicious.
How bad of you! And how delicious!
One is enough. The rest will keep.
Now shut your eyes and go to sleep.

Allons!
This piece of poetry
Is written by a Doctor of Lit,
A degree that my friend Peter Stitt
Persuaded his college to give to me:
Gettysburg College in Pa.,
A Lutheran school in the famous town.
I drove there for Commencement Day,
Following the route of Lee
Seeking the flank of Gen. Meade,
And parked, and found a room, and peed,
Donned the honorary gown
And followed the professors down
Through the deep perspiring crowd
Who peered at me with faces bowed,
Wondering how long I'd gas,
And past the graduating class
Up to the platform where, aloof,
Imperial beneath a roof,
Our magnificent parade
Sat down and surveyed
The situation:
Youth in the sun and age in the shade,
Which has been true since creation.
Age will rule while youth must seek;
Youth must listen to age speak;
And now it was my turn.

I stood

 

And adjusted my doctoral hood,
Nodded to the classic
Brow of President Charles Glassick
And, to the right, the patient rows
Of academic buffaloes,
And with a swirl of gown and sleeve
Advanced dignified
To the podium to receive
The crowd's applause though it had died.
A long pause for the removal
From my pocket of my dark dense notes—
Down front, a storm of clearing throats—
I glanced to the sky for His approval
And took a good deep breath, and then,
Behind me where the degrees were piled,
Behind our row of distinguished men,
Came the voice of a little child,
So shrill and yet so pure:
You're no Doctor of Literature,
Never were and never will be.
Your writing goes from bad to worse.
You don't deserve a doctor degree,
You ain't even literature's nurse.
I turned and saw my old pal Pete
Leap like a champion from his seat,
Snatch that tot and slap its wrist
And make it hop
And wash its mouth with soap
And send it home to the busted shack
Down beside the railroad track,
Where it lived in squalor with its pop,
A noted deconstructionist.
Which taught the child one thing, I hope,
And that is: merit only goes so far.
People who do their best to be
The best find out they are what they are
And have to fall back upon loyalty.
I'm too old to search for truth or
Be a follower of Luther,
But I'm glad to sit beneath their tree
(Thanks to my friend Pete) a P
h. (for honorary) D.

Some mornings I get up at five.
With four to mother, one to wive,
I find the hours from light to dark
Are not enough to matriarch
With goals for matriarchy high
Among the apples of my eye.

 

This little girl with golden braid
Expects her toast a certain shade;
Her scrambled eggs must meet the test
Of excellence and gently rest
Upon the toast and not beside.
The little boy wants his eggs fried
Yet not be greasy on his lips,
Accompanied by bacon strips
Fried till they resemble bark.
The older boy takes his toast dark
And if his golden eggs should not
Be poached and served up steaming hot,
Two slightly liquid yellow bumps
Of yolk in solid white, he slumps
Down in his chair and has a mood.
The oldest girl eats rabbit food,
Berries, nuts, sunflower seeds,
Leaves and stems, and as she feeds,
She is displeased. It's all my fault.
I bought her seeds containing salt.
And worse—some juice containing sugar.
She glares as if I were a crook or,
Worse, a mother short on sense
And guilty of child negligence.

 

Negligence in the name of love
Is just what we should have more of.
Don't mother birds after some weeks
Of looking at those upturned beaks
Deliberately the food delay,
Hoping to hear their goslings say,
“What are these feathered floppy things
Attached to us? You think they're wings?”

 

This helpful trusty friendly
Frau
Is starting her neglect right now.
The clothes you counted on to leap
Up while you were fast asleep
And wash themselves for you to wear
Have let you down. They just sat there.
The bicycle you thought would pick
Itself up when the rain got thick,
The homework you forgot to do,
Assuming I would tell you to—
My child, you have been betrayed.
The world you thought was neatly made,
Its corners tucked in like a sheet,
Is uncomposed and incomplete.
For years I carried on a hoax.
I made you think that scrambled yolks
Or poached or boiled, fried or shirred,
Are how they come out of the bird.
I made you think that big dustballs
Tiptoe softly down the halls
Out to the trash, that your wool skirt
(The one with emblems of dessert)
Took a cab down to the cleaner,
In answer to a court subpoena.

 

No matter what you have been told,
The rainbow holds no pot of gold,
Babies aren't found under rocks
Or in Sears Roebuck catalogues,
Those coins weren't put there by an elf—
The Tooth Fairy is me myself,
The Easter bunny's make-believe,
Cows don't talk on Christmas Eve,
The moon is not made of green cheese,
And eggs don't come the way you please,
Served by hens on silver trays,
And neither does much else these days.

In northeast Minnesota, what they call the Iron Range,

Where a woman is a woman and some things never change,

Where winter lasts nine months a year, there is no spring or fall,

Where it gets so cold the mercury cannot be seen at all

And you and I, we normal folk, would shiver, shake, and chatter,

And if we used an outhouse, we would grow an extra bladder;

But even when it's coldest, when our feet would have no feeling,

Those Iron Rangers get dressed up and go out snowmobiling

Out across the frozen land and make a couple stops

At Gino's Lounge and Rudy's Bar for whiskey, beer, and schnapps—

And then they go into a shack that's filled with boiling rocks

Hot enough to sterilize an Iron Ranger's socks

And sit there till they steam out every sin and every foible

And then jump into a frozen lake and claim that it's enjoible—

But there was one, a shy young man, and although he was Finnish,

The joys of winter had, for him, long started to diminish.

He was a Finn, the only Finn, who would not take a sauna.

“It isn't that I can't,” he said. “I simply do not wanna.

To jump into a frozen lake is not my fondest wish.

For just because I am a Finn don't mean that I'm a fish.”

His friends said, “Come on, Toivo! Let's go out to Sunfish Lake!

A Finn who don't take saunas? Why, there must be some mistake.”

But Toivo said, “There's no mistake. I know that I would freeze

 

In water colder than myself (98.6°).”

And so he stayed close by a stove for nine months of the year

Because he was so sensitive to change of temperature.

 

One night he went to Eveleth to attend the Miners' Ball.

(If you have not danced in Eveleth, you've never danced at all.)

He met a Finnish beauty there who turned his head around.

She was broad of beam and when she danced she shook the frozen ground.

She took that shy young man in hand and swept him off his feet

And bounced him up and down until he learned the polka beat.
She was fair as she was tall, as tall as she was wide,
And when the dance was over, he asked her to be his bride.
She looked him over carefully. She said, “You're kinda thin.
But you must have some courage if it's true you are a Finn.
I ain't particular 'bout men. I am no prima donna.
But I would never marry one who would not take a sauna.”

 

They got into her pickup, and down the road they drove,
And fifteen minutes later they were stoking up the stove.
She had a flask of whiskey. They took a couple toots
And went into the shack and got into their birthday suits.
She steamed him and she boiled him until his skin turned red;
She poured it on until his brains were bubbling in his head.
To improve his circulation and to soften up his hide,
She took a couple birch boughs and beat him till he cried,