Eleven

Lines in birch bark

are like strands of barbed wire

and lines wavering on a screen

beside a hospital bed.

A mahogany rocker,

tar in the handle grooves 

I dig a thumbnail in.

A statue of St. Anthony

holding the baby Jesus is chipped.

One side of the saint’s face is missing, 

is rough white plaster.

The panther on the arm

of the man crossing the street 

in the opposite direction

of my mother and I,

going to the shoe store,

causes her to say, Don’t 

get tattoos.

Green trim on red brick—

a house at the threshold of Milford Woods

is where Al and Gladys 

and daughter Arlene live.

They have freight in their surname.

Dr. Lyon’s tooth powder 

comes in a thin white can

shaped like a flask.

It is robin’s egg blue

and in the middle navy,

with white letters,

on a glass shelf.

Rosemary, with her wavy dark 

hair and bonnet,

in her tomato garden, looks

like the sun-maid

on the red box of raisins.

A badge is a shield 

for enforcers of law.

The tarnished tin lid

of a garbage can 

is a shield for a dueler

wielding a tree branch.

The steamroller

at the side of the house

looks like the barrel of a cement truck,

only that barrel has dots

of red, yellow, blue, and green

like the package of a loaf 

of Wonder Bread.

At closing time 

in The Greasy Spoon

the dishwasher dances,

the busboy follows 

with his broom

around the counter

like a sundial.

Mrs Chords rides to church 

in our red and black Studebaker 

wagon, talking of Willie Mays

at the plate, on the base paths, 

in center field. 

She calls him The Say-Hey Kid.