Night of the Hunter

 

Let’s go, please” my poem said.
“C’mon.”
“You sure you’re not too old
for the Merry Go Round?”  I asked

But I loved it and she knew.
And so we went and I watched her.
I should have known then:
The solemn look on her face as she rode.
It was the last time.
I watched it whirl...there she was...and there.

And now and then the white elephant.


Gone for a year and Halloween.
I thought I would see her tonight.
Running in the dark TOWARDS me.
The porch light is on.
No-one came.


And then I read about her!
She had changed her name to Delia
Lived with Mingus Colorados
And she played a fair Ophelia
In a forlorn summer playhouse
In some godforsaken town.
“Dooley, I think I can do Neil Simon
Now that I’ve got Shakespeare down.”

Delia’s gone.  Oh, Delia’s gone.

A postcard.

“Dooley, Sourdough mountain is sooo beautiful.
There are seven or nine stars in the Pleiades!
I’m learning to play the autoharp!
Gary Snyder says to say Hi!"

A phone call.

“Where?”
”New York, Dooley!  I’m having dinner
At Sardis!
I know where the ducks go – just like Holden
I’m in love!
Do you know Frank O’Hara?”

Alone then for years
I saw the pictures and she looked the same:
The photogs with their Speed Graphic cameras
The men beside her.

Alone and then a call.
“I’m sorry.  I’m downstairs can I please come up?”
“Yes!”

And she was there!
Older.  I liked her hair
It must have been raining
And she
Was sobbing  “Oh, the others… I didn’t..
I mean…”

And I looked at her… all she put me through
..all the others and we still had a chance
One good line.  One good line!

And I looked at her
Afraid to touch her.

“Baby, I said.  You don’t have to
say anything.

Baby, I don’t care!”


That was years ago.
And I am alone.
Now I can only write on trains.
Like the guy who wrote
“Night of the Hunter”
One fist said “Love”
The other said “Hate.”
“It’s not dark yet…”

Yeah, I know.