the poetrysheet
whimsy, subversion, bowling
Number 447, Dec. 18, 2003
Ernst Meister (1911-1979)
“Clyde—of Bonnie and—was
neither a colonel nor a gardener and wore a straw hat, and look what happened
to him.”
—Scott Omelianuk and Ted Allen, Things
a Man Should Know About Style
He’d seen her first at the cotton candy stand in the
Midway. The ring-toss carney shouted for customers and funnel cake fumes wafted
through the lights and over the stomped and slicked grass.
Alluring, he thought, though he had never used the
word before in his life. She was slender and tall, but strong. And mature. She
had to be forty-five.
She looked up at him from beneath bullet silver hair
cropped at her neck and made to seem shorter and girlish by a tightly fitted
black hat. She smiled and turned her body to him, offering him a piece of
cotton candy. “You gotta like that,” he said to himself.
He tried to look away as he walked up, but he
couldn’t. He was confident and sure of himself under her gaze. This, he thought
as he regarded her face, is supposed to be.
“Hey,” he said. He came up close and could smell her
natural fragrance, musky and agreeable. “How’d you know I liked cotton candy?” He
looked closer and saw she wore no makeup, not even lipstick.
“Just knew.” She shifted on one foot. Her long,
graceful neck curved into a featureless, gray, dress. She had legs covered in
black, silk stockings and wore substantial-but-stylish shoes. She was, by the
looks of it, a practical woman.
“A look I got?”
“No. Just a feeling.” She put the twist cotton candy
up. She was careful not to touch his lips when she placed it in his mouth. She
smiled and leaned back on her heals.
He wiped the corners of his mouth with his thumb and
index finder. “I’m glad to see ya. Name’s Meteor Harney.”
“Really.”
“Ever since my brother changed it from Wilbur when we
were kids.”
“Well, Meteor’s a great name. I’m Sylvia Wells.” She
held out her free hand, which he found surprisingly firm.
He looked around for someone who might be taking
interest in this exchange. “You’re not here by yourself?” he said.
“No. No, I’m not.” She replied, and he knew exactly
what she meant.
Today’s poem:
the day after he was rolled
and stacked,
hatted, dressed, and gloved
the sun shone on his cheery cheeks
and his nose fell, point first,
into the ball closest to the ground
into the icy ball representing man
in purest, terms—guts
he smiled, of course,
button nose and gravel stone smile,
while it, orange, saluted
neighbors, friends, compatriots
come and see
the breath of life breathed in me
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