…and books and more books,
That were drilled, from wolves
To opera to short stories ….
…then they said, “You live in
Those stories. They aren’t real,
They are made-up.”
…and I did not answer,
And I kept reading, lost ….
Now, with no books, a crumpled
Newspaper, I step back,
And look at her, seeing her
Raise her arms to put clothes
On hangers, clothes in light plastic.
The arms up, a glimpse of under-arm stubble,
A whiff of sweat, the laundry assistant ….
The providers stretch on booth seats,
A little weight, the jeans tight on
Solid butts, ready to leave for the nursing homes ….
Minutes away from the stories,
And then back to the living stories,
Then gone, absent of all intention
Of career, personal or for whatever gain,
For home or Generations yet to come ….
I depart…
Tired, the laundry woman, sleepy, make-up covering lines ….
Tired, the nursing home women, sleepy, make-up on puffy faces ….
Their eyes, smiles, and they look at me – indulge me:
In stories, out of stories ….
Eugene “Gene” Novogrodsky, Brownsville mid-summer 2011
