Читать книгу Ordinary Time - Michael D. Riley - Страница 22

From his apartment window the old man watched

Christmas take over the block. Wreaths on doors,

sometimes floodlit. Window candles. Abstract rhymes

of tiny white lights threading bare trees.

He knew his neighbors were no more happy

than he was. All for the kids he supposed.

Then he saw the creche down at Trinity

begin to glow: Jesus, Mary, Joseph

in white plastic clothes. What denomination

Trinity was he had no idea.

But he liked the lean-to and straw, the baby lord.

And “creche.” He liked the slippiness—

French, of course—playing like light around

his mouth. He folded up the killing fields

of The lntelligencer, absentmindedly

looked back over seventy-five years

of assumptions to the tiny stable set

she put up despite the old man’s roarings.

Room to room until he gave up.

“Read your church history, Liz. Charred flesh—

auto-da-fe’s, they’re called. Pig bones

for relics, swill for the poor, and gold

for number one. Just another Jew master

for the working man. Kneel on, if you must.”

Every button memorized. Unfair every way.

Nothing dumb about him, just rage on rage.

A cave of rotten wood and sheep shit

would have been fine by me, but she wouldn’t go.

I never met a wise man my whole life,

so we could do without that. Watch the stars,

laugh, and paint the gate any color

we damn well pleased, barn red to Irish green.

That holy family set always scared me.

Who knew what he would do, laugh or scream.

He worked hard enough, bare-knuckled

barrels and skids, iron arms sliding dock freight

into trucks. Seldom touched a drop, either.

God, I loved the ships, the oily sea smell,

the cries of the gulls, the creak of bull-rope.

Little did I know. All her life she never

could say why, though once she said

she still loved the ruin of the man she married.

It’s a story of hope, she’d whisper to me,

hope and love no matter what. Family.

Even she had to blush over that one.

She got her revenge when she was gone.

Or I did. He ran down like a cheap clock

and finally shut up. Hardeyed, grim,

his big shoulders and neck shrunk to fit

the Boston rocker on the porch.

Every night he stared at the same

street light beside Kunzler’s Meats, or the moon

up and down the street length as it rolled

over the housetops. He hardly ever spoke

the last two years, but who could ever guess

what he thought anyway? All I felt

was empty when he shrunk to coffin size,

lying there without a bitter laugh at the last.

I sort of prayed a moment. Then it passed.

Sailing the world slinging hash on one tub

after another kept me a few steps ahead

of love at least. I never boiled an egg

since I retired. Never will. Good luck

to all the ladies. They run like schooners

through my dreams, but I will make do just here.

I like this time just when the sunset tilts

away and the little plastic people

get caught up in their own light, when they glow

from inside as if there was more to them

than a 100 watt bulb and blind faith.

She would glow. He would need a moon-sized

mannequin and more than reflected light.

Forgiveness big as pain he’d need, and then

some more. I wonder what I’d do if I

were God and he showed up. I might consult

the moon, or a plastic family.

I might forgive him on a dare.

I like the little guy in his tiny wooden sloop,

Mom and Pop for oars, God himself almighty

for wind, sea, and sail. Float on, Swabbie.

I’ll have a pint for you when you reach port