The Literary Art

This week’s poet is Kevin Durkin who lives in the Los Angeles area and has published in Poetry, The New Criterion and The Yale Review.

Near a Freeway Ramp

When night takes over day,

I see him on the street

peddling a huge bouquet

of roses in the heat.

He waves it while he strolls

to take in every eye,

then springs if someone rolls

a window down to buy.

How many does he sell?

His hands are often full.

Under his cap, how well

he seems to keep his cool,

while cars, departing, throw

exhaust and dust behind,

and cars, approaching, slow,

their windshields sunset-blind.

His wife stands on the walk,

waiting for him to quit.

I’ve never seen them talk

or either of them sit.

Imagine love like theirs,

the roses in their hands

wilting while traffic stares

and makes too few demands.

Walking with My Daughter in My Arms

Beautiful women, who’d avoid my eye

if I were walking home alone, swing by

to have a chat and let me look my fill.

Even at night, they’re lured against their will

to cross the street, drawn by her coos and sighs.

They share their warmest smiles, but I’ve grown wise:

Leaning down close, they want their fingers held

by tiny fingers; I step back, compelled

instinctively to break the tete-a-tete

before my daughter turns her face, upset.

Not used to be disappointed, they

resort to compliments and stalk away.

Teased by their fragrances, I watch them go.

My younger self would not have swished it so.

In the Next Cubicle

Our colleague brought his son to work one day,

showed him our spaces, told the boy our names,

then sat him in a cubicle to play

with a toy race car and computer games,

buying some time to finish up a task.

We went about our business quietly

until we heard his son pipe up and ask,

“Is Mom in heaven?” “Yes.” “Then who will be

my parents when you die?” “I plan to live until you’re all grown up,” our colleague said.

At sixty, what more comfort could he give,

now his young wife was nearly two years dead?

The boy, adopted when her health was good,

had just turned five and wasn’t satisfied.

I wonder if he really understood

when he said, “I was small when Mama died,

and I’ll be small when you do.” “No way, sport.”

“Yeah, I’ll be small.” A neighbor cleared his throat,

came to my desk with drafts of his report,

and asked me gruffly for my final vote.

I tried to concentrate on text and chart

but glanced up often at a photograph

of my young daughter pushing her toy cart

down a long aisle, face turned, about to laugh.

Jeff Goodman is Lagniappe literary editor. Contact him at literaryed@lagniappemobile.com.

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