I Think Continually Of Those Who Are Truly
Late.
I think continually
of those who are truly late.
Like old John Howe
in the snow
Leaning against my
father’s store.
“Open Christmas
eve! Open until eight!”
Which it was about
an hour before.
John’s drunk. Pulls hard on the oarlocks.
Stagolees across
the street to the Polacks.
“Just one drink,”
Stan says. “Then you gotta go.”
John don’t say nothing.’
Waves his hand.
Means
“I know.”
At our house the
night is anything but holy and calm.
John’s there.
“Jimmie, I need a present
For my boy Tom.”
Just like last
year. I sense disaster.
I’m right. “Here it is, John. Already wrapped.
A Talkin’
Viewmaster. “
John says “I gotta
go.” My Dad says “Let’s go outside.
I’ll take you home.
Looks like you could use a ride.”
My mother says
“Dammit, all you kids
Need to get to
bed.”
My uncle says “It’s
been what?
Fifteen years since
his boy’s been dead?”
The Christmas star
rages. With what ? With glory?
I don’t know. Anyway, this is a true Christmas story.
I think continually
of those who are truly late.
And how they also
serve
Who can barely
stand…but wait.
My father in the store commanding “Buy!”
My father in the
store commanding “Buy!”
And they did. My
dad knew why.
Went in for a lamp
and out they went:
With a bedroom
soot—store credit at six percent
And a plaster
matador thrown in to put before
On the porch near
the sofa near the row house door.
But me? I was indifferent—indifferent very
Downtown I went to
the movies and then the library.
Library closing I
glided past the Coatesville Hotel
Dreaming of men
with atomic brains. I wasn’t doing so
well.
Across the street
saw my Dad with all those World War Depression men.
Smoking
Chesterfields and Luckies. Chewing Sen
Sen.
Almost all gone. Almost all now just dust and ash and bone.
And I hurried home
to watch “The Twilight Zone.”
Oh, Donna
On one Christmas Eve I was staying up late.
Reading and reading. Ah, Nineteen
Fifty Eight!
Under the covers. By a Scout
flashlight’s beam.
The immortal poesy of a Midsummer Night’s dream.
But I knew I was in trouble. The
reason’s because
I kinda liked Jesus but I loved Santa Claus.
Ah, I remember as through a black mist
That Jesus was very far down on my list:
I loved “Famous Monsters,” my Davy Crockett lampshades,
Sugar Ray Robinson and Gillette Blue Blades.
I liked Classic Comics and wasn’t too fancy:
Loved Mutt and Jeff but couldn’t stand “Nancy.”
I hated Johnny De Matteo. But I
loved his bike.
Liked to sleep on the patio and I didn’t like Ike.
Loved “Highway Patrol” and really loved “Topper.”
If he’d been around I would have liked Dennis Hopper.
I’d read the Iliad and liked that madman Achilles
Loved Chico Fernandez—shortstop for the Phillies.
Liked watching my neighbor Maria Cantonese
Run screaming from me with my jarful of bees.
Liked the Lone Ranger and, of course, Rin Tin Tin.
Liked that old movie about Gunga Din.
I knew I was screwed up. Knew I
was wrong.
But Jesus was nothing compared to King Kong.
But I knew I was in trouble. The
reason’s because
I kinda liked Jesus but I loved Santa Claus.
But that Christmas Eve I was reading the Bard.
Went to bed early. It always was
hard
Waiting for all of those hours to pass.
Until my Mom and Dad came back from Mass.
Santa wouldn’t arrive until they went to bed.
“I heard there’s a storm” my Uncle Joe said.
“He’ll probably make it but I thought you’d like to know
That he’s stuck in a blizzard up near Buffalo.”
So I went up to bed and he said “Good Luck!”
And I stayed awake reading about Bottom and Puck.
Then turned off the flashlight. My
thoughts were so far
From our savior Jesus and the Christmas star.
Then . . . what was that sound? I
turned on my pillow.
Looked out the window. It was
Donna Fruillo.
Undressing! She must have
forgotten to put down the shade!
Donna Fruillo! She was in the
tenth grade.
The light went off in a flash but I saw what I saw.
Donna was naked! Was naked! And all
Thoughts of Christmas, of Santa, the Bard!
Disappeared in an instant. Something
was . . . hard.
This was so strange! And then my
little hand
Crept under the covers as an angel band
Wept and cried out! But, what did
I know?
I said to myself. “This is what Heaven’s like, Joe.
Grace directly from Jesus!” I
finished and then
Prayed to Lord Jesus for it to happen again.
What a discovery! And that
Christmas day
I found many fine reasons to lie down and pray
Up in my bedroom behind my locked door.
If I had known about this . . . I would have loved Jesus before!
Again and again I was open to Heaven.
Again and again. My record was seven
Times in one night. I just offered
a prayer
And thought of Oh Donna and Jesus was there.
But then all was ruined. On that
New Year’s Eve
I told Johnny Doan how I’d come to believe.
How Jesus saved me. How my soul he
did win.
And Johnny said gravely “That’s a mortal sin.
Right now you are headed directly to Hell.”
And I looked right at him and told him “Oh, well.
I guess I can go to hell if I wanna.”
And I cried out nightly “Oh, Donna! Oh, Donna!”
The Snow
Because you loved the old man
You tell stories about him.
Sometimes the stories are true.
He spit tobacco in tin cans and lived
In your aunt's house in an upstairs room
Where she was not allowed.
He pissed out the window when
He was drunk and sang
“Arthur McBride.”
Your aunt screamed,
"Sweet Jesus, What's this?"
And he looked down on her.
"It’s your goddamned father
Pissing out the goddamned window!"
The winter night when
He died you were home looking
Out at the snow.
At the loneliness of the footprints
Your parents had made
Where they had gone.
At yours where you had gone out
And then come in again.
Small flakes floated past the streetlamps
And melted when they touched
The car. The wavering lights
Shivered, standing in pools of themselves.
When you parents came home
The snow had already whitened
Their shoulders and he was dead.
The next morning when you awoke,
The new snow had come.
And your father's footprints
And your mother's and
Yours and everyone's were all gone.
But the new world was still
So lovely all in the new snow.
Sometimes the stories are true.
He spit tobacco in tin cans and lived
In your aunt's house in an upstairs room
Where she was not allowed.
He pissed out the window when
He was drunk and sang
“Arthur McBride.”
Your aunt screamed,
"Sweet Jesus, What's this?"
And he looked down on her.
"It’s your goddamned father
Pissing out the goddamned window!"
The winter night when
He died you were home looking
Out at the snow.
At the loneliness of the footprints
Your parents had made
Where they had gone.
At yours where you had gone out
And then come in again.
Small flakes floated past the streetlamps
And melted when they touched
The car. The wavering lights
Shivered, standing in pools of themselves.
When you parents came home
The snow had already whitened
Their shoulders and he was dead.
The next morning when you awoke,
The new snow had come.
And your father's footprints
And your mother's and
Yours and everyone's were all gone.
But the new world was still
So lovely all in the new snow.
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