The Last Night of the Earth Poems (9 page)

 

I still remember those New Orleans rats

out on the balcony railings

in the dark of early morning

as I stood waiting my turn at the

crapper.

there were always two or three

big ones

just sitting there—sometimes they’d

move quickly then

stop and sit there.

I looked at them and they looked at

me.

they showed no fear.

 

at last the crapper door would open

and out would walk

one of the tenants

and he always looked worse than

the rats

and then he’d be gone

down the hallway

and I’d go into the still-stinking

crapper

with my hangover.

 

and almost always

when I came out

the rats would be gone.

as soon as it got a little light

they would

vanish.

 

and then

the world would be

mine,

I’d walk down the stairway

and into it

and my low-wage

pitiful

job

while remembering the

rats,

how it was better for them

than for

me.

 

I walked to work as the sun

came up hot

and the whores slept

like

babies.

 

putting on your torn clothes in an old New Orleans roominghouse,

you and your stockboy soul,

then rolling your little green wagon past the salesgirls who

took no notice of you, those girls dreaming of bigger

game with their tiny rectangular

brains.

 

or in Los Angeles, coming in from your shipping clerk job at

an auto parts warehouse, taking the elevator up to 319 to find

your woman sprawled out on the bed, drunk at

6 p.m.

 

you were never any good at picking them, you always got the

leftovers, the crazies, the alkies, the pill-freaks.

maybe that was all you could get and maybe you were all they

could get.

 

you went to the bars and found more alkies, pill-freaks, crazies.

all they had to show you were a pair of well-turned ankles in

spike-heeled shoes.

you thumped up and down on beds with them as if you had discovered

the meaning of

existence.

 

then there was this day at work when Larry the salesman came down the

aisle with his big belly and his little button eyes, Larry always

walked loudly on leather-soled shoes and he was almost always

whistling.

 

he stopped whistling and stood at your shipping table as you

worked.

 

then he began rocking back and forth, he had this habit and

he stood there rocking, observing you, he was one of those jokers, you

know, and then he began laughing, you were sick from a long crazy

night, needed a shave, you were dressed in a torn shirt.

 

“what is it, Larry?” you asked.

 

and then he said, “Hank, everything you touch turns to shit!”

 

you couldn’t argue with him about that.

 

got out, fellow said, “hey!” walked toward

me, we shook hands, he slipped me 2 red

tickets for free car washes, “find you later,”

I told him, walked on through to waiting

area with wife, we sat on outside bench.

black fellow with a limp came up, said,

“hey, man, how’s it going?”

I answered, “fine, bro, you makin’ it?”

“no problem,” he said, then walked off to

dry down a Caddy.

“these people know you?” my wife asked.

“no.”

“how come they talk to you?”

“they like me, people have always liked me,

it’s my cross.”

then our car was finished, fellow flipped

his rag at me, we got up, got to the

car, I slipped him a buck, we got in, I

started the engine, the foreman walked

up, big guy with dark shades, huge guy,

he smiled a big one, “good to see you,

man!”

I smiled back, “thanks, but it’s your party,

man!”

I pulled out into traffic, “they know you,”

said my wife.

“sure,” I said, “I’ve been there.”

 

parking lot attendant, Bobby, was funny,

wise-cracking, laughing, was

good at it, he was an original,

sometimes when I was down

listening to Bobby brought me back

up.

 

didn’t see him for 3 weeks, asked the

other attendants but they didn’t know

or made things up.

 

drove in today and there was

Bobby, his uniform wrinkled, he was just

standing there while the others

worked.

 

approached him and he seemed to

recognize me, then spoke: “got all

stressed out driving here, it took me

3 hours!”

 

he wasn’t laughing, had grown suddenly

fat, his belt buckle was

unfastened, I buckled him up, he

had a 3 day beard,

his

hair was grey, his face wrinkled, his

eyes stuck in a backwash, 20 years

lost in 3 weeks.

 

“good to see you, Bobby.”

 

“yeah, sure, when you going to buy

this place?”

 

he was talking about the

racetrack.

I walked across the lot and into

the track, took the escalator

up, reached the top floor, walked

toward the service stand.

Betty saw me and got my coffee

poured.

 

“you ready for a big day?”

she asked.

 

“I’m ready for any kind of

day.”

 

“you come here to win, don’t

you?”

 

“I come here not to

lose.”

 

I took my coffee to a seat

facing the toteboard.

the odds flashed, I sat down

spilling hot coffee

on my

hand.

 

“shit,” I said.

 

and the day went

on.

 

send as many poems as you wish, only

keep each to a maximum of ten lines.

no limit as to style or content

although we prefer poems of

affirmation.

double space

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manuscripts

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judge all works within 90

days.

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Elly May Moody,

general editor in charge.

please enclose ten dollars for

each poem

submitted.

a final grand prize of

seventy-five dollars will

be awarded the winner

of the

Elly May Moody Golden Poetry

Award,

along with a scroll

signed by

Elly May Moody.

there will also be 2nd, 3rd and

4th prize scrolls

also signed by

Elly May Moody.

all decisions will be

final.

the prize winners will

appear in the Spring issue of

The Heart of Heaven.

prize winners will also receive

one copy of the magazine

along with

Elly May Moody’s

latest collection of

poetry,

The Place Where Winter

Died
.

 

near the corner table in the

cafe

a middle-aged couple

sit.

they have finished their

meal

and they are each drinking a

beer.

it is 9 in the evening.

she is smoking a

cigarette.

then he says something.

she nods.

then she speaks.

he grins, moves his

hand.

then they are

quiet.

through the blinds next to

their table

flashing red neon

blinks on and

off.

 

there is no war.

there is no hell.

 

then he raises his beer

bottle.

it is green.

he lifts it to his lips,

tilts it.

 

it is a coronet.

 

her right elbow is

on the table

and in her hand

she holds the

cigarette

between her thumb and

forefinger

and

as she watches

him

the streets outside

flower

in the

night.

 

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I’m too tough for him,

I say, stay in there, I’m not going

to let anybody see

you.

 

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I pour whiskey on him and inhale

cigarette smoke

and the whores and the bartenders

and the grocery clerks

never know that

he’s

in there.

 

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I’m too tough for him,

I say,

stay down, do you want to mess

me up?

you want to screw up the

works?

you want to blow my book sales in

Europe?

 

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I’m too clever, I only let him out

at night sometimes

when everybody’s asleep.

I say, I know that you’re there,

so don’t be

sad.

then I put him back,

but he’s singing a little

in there, I haven’t quite let him

die

and we sleep together like

that

with our

secret pact

and it’s nice enough to

make a man

weep, but I don’t

weep, do

you?

 

the sweet slide of the luger

toward your temple,

a flight of birds winging

northward,

the clicking sound of the

safety catch being

released,

the eclipse of the

sun,

the sound of something being

shut

hard,

pal.