Tuscaloosa, The Penny, and The Train
I see the woman everyone calls crazy.
She waits ahead like a dancer,
and the sidewalk
is like a ballroom floor
on which she smiles, turns,
and reaches for my naked hand.
I don’t know how to refuse: every night
bottles break in this town;
stars litter the sidewalk,
the road on which I walk;
like an iris, the moon stands
in the sky. Cars pass; their headlights
spill our shadows on the road.
Red lights flash up ahead.
The train whistle blows. The arm
of the semaphore comes down
behind us. The woman lets go
of my hand. She speaks—no one
in this town has ever mentioned
that she could. She says,
I want to put a penny
on the tracks. I consider
crossing, leaving the moving train
between her and me. She fishes a penny
from her sock and puts it
on the rail. The train wails,
passes smooth as a boat
between the tiny yards
of the tiny houses,
a rushing that makes my eyes burn.
I’m standing five feet
from the rail. Her white dress
waves in the wind
like a flag.
Jukebox Gothic
“Prison Song”
My heart is like a prison filled
with zebras, songbirds, white mice,
black gypsies, tandem bicycles,
symphonies, ballerinas, movie stars,
and the world’s largest ball
of red ribbon.
Oh, My Dear, if only you
could find the key.
“Divorce Song”
My Dear Beloved X,
The alimony check
is in the mail. How’s
the singular life?
For me, it's cake.
I sink. The icing fills the top
of my boots. No bride
to pull me out.
Enclosed, please find
a father’s day card
and a stamp.
I send love to the boys.
What goes around
comes around.
Or so they say.
"Jesus Saves..."
a dollar for every
100th sin I commit.
He's so rich, he can't fit
through the red hot eye
of a Camel non-filtered.
Love is cancerous.
It breeds more love;
my heart nigh bursts
for each
and every soul.
I'd commit
unpardonable sins
to get the lot of you
into heaven.
You run, I'll draw
the Devil’s fire.
“Naturally”
I play Gary Cooper's shadow
in High Noon. All I do:
stay close, follow his lead;
I mimic his dead pan
on the matinee screen
of your TV set. Oh, ye housewives
drinking into the early
afternoon, I fill
the hollow of your dread. I add
depth to your art. What good
are lonely figures
without their shadows?
Foil by symmetry.
The photo's negative.
On the screen we live forever,
as lasting as art
or love and as present
as the stars we count
for each of our
distant woes.
“Solitary Girl”
They roll
out of town
high in their cabs—
fathers, brothers,
lovers.
Our sex is a cheap motel.
The nirvana
they crawl inside.
I own
a television, a ball bat,
a Sunday dress,
and a box turtle
shut tight
for seven years.
"Drinking Stiff"
Despondent Dirk,
Mr. Propped Against
The Jukebox,
has overcome
his troubles.
Inebriation leads
to memory loss,
and a general
hardening of the organs,
the least of which
is the heart. Sir,
in truth, we
the lovelorn are here
to get pickled.
Our common fear:
our unrequited love
will last forever.
All poems © 2004, Alan May. Printed by permission of author.
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