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Charles Coe

Spin Cycles

Charles Coe is the author of two books of poetry, All Sins Forgiven: Poems for My Parents and ­Picnic on the Moon (Leapfrog Press). His poetry has appeared in literary reviews and anthologies such as ­Poesis, The Mom Egg, Solstice Literary Review, and Urban Nature. Charles won a fellowship in poetry from the Massachusetts Cultural Council, and his poems have been set to music by a number of composers. Co-­chair of the Boston Chapter of the National Writers Union, Charles was selected by the Associates of the Boston Public Library as a “Boston Literary Light for 2014.”

First published by GemmaMedia in 2014.

GemmaMedia

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Boston MA 02109 USA

www.gemmamedia.com

©2014 by Charles Coe

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Printed in the United States of America

18 17 16 15 14 1 2 3 4 5

978-1-936846-47-4

Library of Congress Cataloging-­­in-­­Publication Data

Coe, Charles, 1952–

[Poems. Selections]

Spin cycles / Charles Coe.

pages ; cm. — (Gemma’s Open Doors)

I. Title.

PS3553.O338A6 2014

811′.54—dc23

2014028780

Cover by Laura Shaw Design

Inspired by the Irish series designed for new readers, Gemma’s Open Doors provide fresh stories, new ideas, and essential resources for young people and adults as they embrace the power of reading and the ­written word.

Brian Bouldrey

North American Series Editor

Open Door

Sometimes even to live is an act

of courage.

Seneca, 4 bce–ce 65

One

How beautiful.

The late afternoon sun has turned windows in buildings along the Charles River into golden mirrors. Light shines through the few leaves still clinging to the giant oaks. The wind plays its timeless game with the leaves. One moment it blows hard to make them flutter and wave. Then it dies down to leave them hanging quiet and still, waiting for a new gust.

Eight women in a racing boat are rowing hard as they approach the Weeks Bridge. Their oars kiss the water’s surface in perfect rhythm. A motorboat moves along beside, and a woman with a blond ponytail tucked in a Harvard baseball cap leans over the side, shouting instructions and encouragement through a megaphone.

The boat disappears under the bridge, comes out the other side, and continues on its way, slicing smoothly through the calm water. I feel a pulse as I watch them speed down the river. It’s a drumbeat so low it can only be felt, not heard. It’s the rowers’ hearts, beating together as one as they row together like an engine made of flesh and bone. The pulse grows fainter as the boat, tiny as a bathtub toy, disappears around a bend in the river.

I’m sitting alongside the riverbank, leaning against a tree on a sunny Saturday afternoon in early fall. The grass and walkways along the river are filled with walkers and joggers and bike riders. A group of people playing volleyball on the lawn behind the Kennedy School laughs and shouts. The day seems cool to picnic, but a few blankets are spread out on the lawn. A young couple is smiling at their child, a toddler with a pink ribbon in her hair. The little one has just taken a bite of a pickle and can’t decide if she likes it. She frowns for a moment, then breaks out in a giggle.

The students are back at Harvard after their summer break and they are buzzing with the excitement of the new school year. It is strange that I keep coming back to this place that’s such a big a part of the life I’ve left behind. Or maybe it’s a life that left me. The memories are painful and strong, and perhaps I shouldn’t be here. But on such a beautiful day it’s hard to stay away.

As the afternoon shadows grow ­longer, the air is turning cold. The young family is packing up their basket. The volleyball game is over, and players start taking down the net. I rise from the grass, brush the leaves from my clothes, and start to walk along the river toward Boston.

A woman is slowly pushing a baby carriage. The baby reaches out with both arms, wiggling her fingers, learning how they work. Our eyes meet and I see her look of wonder. An old soul fascinated by her new body. I smile as her mother tosses me a nervous glance and pushes the carriage faster.

I wish I could talk to the little one, try to explain how the world she’s landed on can be so beautiful and horrible at the same time. But I can’t. I would just frighten her mother. I feel a moment of sadness as I stop and watch the carriage move away.

But just then a single oak leaf falls to the sidewalk, glowing orange and red, and covered with delicate yellow veins. It was born as a bud that burst into brief green life and chose this moment to break free from its branch. Like a brightly colored bird on its first and only flight, it has drifted to the pavement at my feet.

The leaf lifts my spirit. I suddenly feel the blood moving through my own veins, the sap that fuels my body. When I’m feeling this way I have to be careful not to attract attention. I have to remember not to dance on a street corner when I hear a certain song on a car radio. Not to stand on the sidewalk laughing at a clever display in a store window. Because people are watching. They’re always watching.

I will feel the heat and see the judgment in their eyes. Then my winds shift. My thoughts turn thick and heavy, and every passing face is made of stone. And the great black swirling cloud that no one else can see floats above my head. It follows me as it always follows, with the patience of a vulture.

For the moment, thanks to a random leaf, I am safe inside my bubble. And my bubble will carry me into Boston to find somewhere warm to sit until the stars come out. And then I will go to the place where, for tonight at least, I will sleep.

Walking calms me at times like these. My mind begins to rest on the rhythm of my footsteps on the ground. Soon I’ve walked all the way to Copley Square. And as long as I keep moving, I’m warm.

Two

The sidewalks are jammed. Tourists in brand-­new Red Sox caps. Shoppers with bags from expensive stores. The street ven­dor shouting about his “world-­famous” hot dogs. A young boy is flipping a coin high in the air and catching it as he walks. The coin climbs to the same height with each toss and lands on his palm, exactly in the middle, every third step. He takes two steps to prepare for the next throw and on the third step sends the coin flying once more.

Then, he misses the coin. It hits the sidewalk and starts to roll away. The boy doesn’t chase after it. He freezes like a statue, watching it roll, and nothing moves but his eyes. Only after it slows, falls over, and comes to rest on the pavement does the statue come back to life. He calmly walks over to pick it up and starts again. How serious and precise he is. The game he’s playing is something I might have done myself when I was his age, when I still knew what it was like to be free of cares.

I move on from this distraction. What I really came here for was to find King Leonard. Suddenly there he is, exactly where I expected, sitting on his bench by the fountain. As usual, he’s wearing his special robe and headpiece, both made of heavy-­duty black garbage bags. His feet are wrapped in shoes made of the same material. He sits calmly, hands on his knees, staring straight ahead. I don’t approach him immediately. I like to watch him from a little distance.

What first drew me to King Leonard, and what impresses me each time I see him, is his air of royal dignity. People always stare at him, sometimes laugh out loud. Some of the ruder ones pull out cell phones to take his picture, not asking for his permission. Others act like he has a disease they are afraid to catch. They try to stay as far away as possible when they walk past him. Through it all, the serene king sits, as though nothing that people around him say or do can affect him.

He reminds me of a lion I saw at the zoo when I was a child. My mother took me. I don’t think she really wanted to go, but she probably heard somebody say it was a good way for a mother and child to spend time together. I hated it. I hated seeing the animals shoved into those tiny spaces. The lion had been captured in the wild and spent his entire day, every day, pacing back and forth. He ignored the endless parade of people with their cameras.

King Leonard is the same way. He pays no attention to the swirl of people around him, never notices their stares. As I stand watching, he rises slowly from his bench. He’s a huge man, and yet his movements are graceful and precise. He picks up a push broom that leans against a tree, a broom with long, thick bristles. Then with slow, careful strokes he starts to sweep the trash and leaves around his bench.

When he has a pile gathered, he uses a torn piece of cardboard as a dustpan to dump the mess into a trash barrel. Then, like a tape running slowly in reverse, he leans the broom back against the tree and resumes his seat on the bench. No one sits next to him, or on the benches on either side. He seems surrounded by an invisible force field that keeps people away.

I walk over to his bench and sit. He doesn’t turn his head, but of course he knows I’m there. He has felt my energy. We sit quietly as life in Copley Square moves all around us. Boys on skateboards practice their jumps and spins. King Leonard and I are silent, watching and listening. I am always pleased and a little surprised that he doesn’t mind my presence.

He doesn’t call himself King Leonard, that’s the name I use for him. Of course, I have never spoken it aloud, not even to him. I don’t know what name he was called in his former life. Most street people around here just call him “Bagman.” I call him “King” because of the way he carries himself. And I call him Leonard because he reminds me of my favorite high school math teacher.

I would never presume to ask King Leonard how he came to be sitting on this bench, dressed in plastic bags. I try to imagine him in a former life, a thousand years ago, standing at the top of a hill. He is talking to his army before a battle, telling the soldiers to be strong and brave. His voice booms out over the valley, and each man believes the king speaks to him and to him alone. He raises his sword and the air is filled with a cheer that roars like thunder.

King Leonard seldom speaks. Most of the street people who roam Copley Square have probably never heard his voice. Sometimes he speaks to me, saying something like, “The days are getting short.” Sometimes, if I ask him a direct question, he’ll answer. I ask him if he thinks he might have been a king in a former life.

For a while, he neither speaks nor moves. I am not sure he heard me. He keeps staring straight ahead. Then he says, “Everyone who talks about past lives was always a king or a queen. Nobody ever cleaned toilets.” He turns to look at me and nods slowly. “You’re still looking for balance,” he says. “Not easy to find in this world.”

I have never said anything to him about being out of balance. About how my moods chase themselves around my head like dogs chasing a rabbit. But clearly he knows. “How do you find balance,” I ask. “In a world like this?” This time the king does not answer. His plastic robe crinkles loudly as he shifts his weight on the bench.

Three

A little girl with long blond pigtails ­wearing a pink Red Sox jersey is pushing herself along on her scooter. She stops a few feet from our bench and stares at King Leonard, wide-­eyed. He stares back, hands on his knees, until a woman calls the girl away and the two of them continue down Boylston Street.

“That little girl thought you were interesting,” I say. “But the woman was afraid. What happened to her? What happens to all of us? Why do we become afraid?”