David Graham
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I Do This, I Do That
It's also pretty hard to remember life's marvelous
--Frank O'Hara, "In Favor of One's Time" (1959)
When he wrote that, Frank little knew he was just
seven marvelous years from a particularly nasty,
absurd death on the shores of a land that mostly
did not speak French or remember its secret heroes;
but it's also pretty hard to heave myself out of bed
on a September morning, the special gunmetal light
of a season turning cold fast, last night's wind and rain
like eraser crumbs spread across the blank lawn,
and my head empty as a bottle. Luckily my dog lies
on his rug at my side, knowing exactly what to do
with the gray sky and droplets clinging to the window--
which is to say, he naps like a pro while I tally up
the stabs and twinges in my joints, wonder should I
clip my nails or wait another morning to have one
sure thing to look forward to, like a Tolstoy novel
massively dusty on the night stand, but there are
so many things to do this morning, like choose
a green or a blue checked shirt, and the agony
of cereal or a bagel, cello or oboes to herald my
passage to the cool downstairs, where Lee has
already bustled off to work with her green tea, leaving
a specific headline dead center of the kitchen table,
a message only I will comprehend out of all
the frowzy husbands in this dripping world,
and if that isn't marvelous, I'd like to know what is.
Just Trying to Get to Sandusky, He Said
"I'm not a car jacker or anything," he said,
and in truth I believed him. Nothing bad-ass
about his fairly new jeans, yellow polo shirt,
and hair no shaggier than mine. Maybe forty.
Still, he had the sidelong drift of a panhandler
and sure enough out came his pitch: sister
in trouble in Sandusky, and he somehow
without his billfold on this interstate, almost
out of gas and still a hundred miles to go.
I didn't see any car, just passed him a few bucks
to make him go away, which he did without
even a thank-you, leaving me to appreciate
the starkness of our exchange. He didn't pretend
to be grateful, I didn't pretend to believe him.
I don't expect he'll pay it forward, either.
"Best I can do," I shrugged, handing him
the few ones in my wallet, not about to part with
a twenty just to feel the buzz of being that kind of man.
But he was ambling away before I stowed
my billfold back in my pocket--no doubt already
seeking his next sucker or--who knows?--a saint.
For why wouldn't a saint ride the Ohio Turnpike
looking to improve the dusty miles between
Cleveland and Toledo? Surely if I were a saint
I could often be found in Vermilion, Lorain,
Elyria and Strongsville. I would know people
in Huron and Wilmer, and yes, would have
a sister in Sandusky. She would live just off
Grand Avenue of the Republic Highway
and wouldn't have been down to the lake
in years. That's something we talked about--
a picnic at the lake sometime when we weren't
so busy and had some leisure time, some nice
sunset night in July, a trace of autumn cool
in the breeze and a sixpack good and gold
to work on. But then Sandi got so sick,
and it was all I could do to get over there
once every couple-three weeks or so
to help mow the yard and bring a few groceries
--but mostly just to talk, sipping our coffees,
deep talk like we haven't done since we were kids,
and now it seems time might be limited
and anyway, neither of us talks anymore
about heading down to the lake. Maybe that's sad
or maybe, as Sandi would say, it's just realistic,
but in any case, she won't see another sunset
off those waters in this lifetime, and we both
feel it. Can you spare a twenty for that, pal?
On Finding My Father Still in My Address Book
Two years since he died, ten since his last email
with some weather chat and thanks for the birthday CD.
I've long since lost or deleted that note, but somehow
here is his final address popping up tonight,
scrolling by next to brother and nephews. . . .
in a program I didn't use when he was alive.
I fight the urge to email him, knowing how I'll feel
when it bounces. Better to imagine him perched
at his old computer with instruction manual laid out
on the desk, carefully making his way number to number
down the list of Frequently Asked Questions.
Almost every night I look up at the moon,
the few constellations I can identify, and think
of him sweeping his arm horizon to horizon,
explaining that dome of glitter above us.
I've forgotten most of it besides Orion, Polaris,
the Great and Minor Bears. But his steady voice
enters my dream like conversation in a room
next door, parents going over their day as the lamp
slowly cools and stars appear out the window.
No words I can make out, but a sound I like to listen for
nonetheless. You are my most frequently asked
question, Dad. The answer, too, I guess.
Bio
David Graham has published two full-length books and four chapbooks, most recently Stutter Monk (Flume Press). With Kate Sontag, he also co-edited the essay anthology After Confession: Poetry as Autobiography (Graywolf Press). Poems, essays, and reviews have appeared widely, in print and online. David Graham won the Hugh J. Luke Award for two poems in the Spring 2010 issue of Prairie Schooner. He lives in Ripon, Wisconsin, where he is a professor of English at Ripon College. Visit David Graham's online Poetry Library or learn more about him by visiting his website