the poetrysheet
whimsy, subversion, bowling
Number 478, March 17,
2004
Eduardo Chirinos
(1960- )
“He
who was formerly reckless and afterward became sober brightens up this world,
like the moon when freed from clouds.”
—Gautama Buddha, “Chapter XII—Self” from the Sutta Pitaka
Harry dreams Saturn
Harry
first approached the will-call window with trepidation, smiling and nervous as
he made his way through phalanxes of tuxedos and puffed shouldered dresses. He
waited in the line at the window with his eyes on the floor, stealing glances
around the cavernous lobby and the tall, ornate doors that led to the concert
hall. When it was his turn, he told the haloed clerk behind the teller-cage
bars his name in a low voice.
“Why Harry, we have your
ticket right here.” The middle-aged matronly woman in an overly large T-shirt
that read “Schubert for dessert.” The light behind the window made the eyes
behind her rhinestone glasses disappear and illuminated her smile yellow.
He took
the ticket, astounded to have been expected, to have an envelope with his name
on it, and now to have an usher show him to a seat in a box with an perfect
view of the orchestra. Obviously, one of the rewards of being the symphony
conductor’s regular waiter was free tickets to a weekend performance of
Mozart’s 41st, the Jupiter.
Before
the lights went down, obviously well-heeled patrons in fine dress sipping
Champagne came into the box. He suddenly felt out of place in a T-shirt and
jeans.
“To
whom do we have the pleasure?” said the woman, whose slim shoulders and ample
bosom barely sheathed in a strapless dress took Harry’s eyes from the theatre’s
opulence.
“Uh…Harry,”
he said, standing clumsily and holding out his hand.
“Well, Harry,
I’m Marcia and this is Troy.” Harry stared at Marcia’s breasts, which seemed
ready to pop free from her bodice.
“How do
you do?” Troy, the suave and powdered man, said with a smile.
“Fine.
Good,” Harry said with a catch in his throat.
“Come
to the orchestra often?” she said, hefting her breasts with a deep breath.
“No.
Uhh…This is my first time.”
“I hope
you will join us often,” Troy said.
“Me,
too.”
They
sat in the blood velvet chairs. Harry tried not to look at Marcia though he
felt her eyes on the side of his neck. Troy seemed to be laughing. He
self-consciously put his hands in his lap to cover himself and his growing
hardness.
He over
at Marcia briefly. She held her head at a slant, her eyes were cocked on his.
She had a soft, knowing smirk.
He took
a deep breath and tried to exhale the shaking nervousness. He thought Marcia
was brilliant, and he liked the way she looked at him. He could think of
nothing but making love to her on the velvet armchair unseen above the
audience. He knew he was being used and didn’t mind in the least.
The
musicians began to tune their instruments. It was a sound Harry knew—a
yellow-red noise that had filled his head on afternoons when he took a break
from working in the grass in back of the restaurant. Those breaks had become
everything to him. He would lay down, close his eyes against the sun, and sink
into a space so soft and gentle, and so filled with discordant sound from which
sprang orderly music, that to leave that place to sleep or to rise to work again
was always regretful.
He
closed his eyes as the lights went down. The anarchy of the musicians tuning
just before the conductor raised his hand to impose order transported him into
Marcia’s bosom. As the music began, she lay back on the chair. He feathered his
hand up her leg, parting her dress along the seam. The audience was silent,
delighting in their performance with surprised and happy smiles.
He was
warm. He smelled the grass and felt the wind. He was inundated in stars such as
he had only ever dreamed.
By Lee Ingalls
There is always one more thing.
Something waiting in the dark
to be considered, something sticking,
something bent, catching at the fabric,
something that leaves her
standing on the platform past midnight.
The unseen conductor, damn him,
held the last train content and humming
on the tracks while she checked her ticket
and
filled a glass with water,
shouldered her bag,
turned
down the comforter,
stepped up softly
and
fluffed the pillow
and sank into the cushion and closed her eyes
to wait for the whistle and lurch.
But there’s always one more thing
and tonight it was the damn alarm clock
unset and just out of reach and here she stands
staring down the line and envying the trees
their slumber and looking for a stone to throw
as the night birds mock her
and the moon beats down like rain.
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