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MARK SABA Gorky Park, 1986There are rumors in the centers of trees in Gorky Park. The sounds coming from loudspeakers there are absent. The swans living in Gorky Park are beautiful black, their beaks orange and young gray. A Ferris wheel spins circles in the air, making winds against the trees. A man comes up to ask for a match, not knowing what language to speak. The young speak in corners. The old do not speak. The swans move within sight of everyone. There are playgrounds set up for amusement and cafés closed for the evening. It is seven o"clock. No one is able to fill the quiet and words grow heavy on trees. Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet |
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ROSALY DEMAIOS ROFFMAN When I Come Home with a Loaf from Zaro"s in Penn Station I want to SingCome with me to the land of good bread the corner Garden bakery up Tremont Avenue with the hair-netted women and their gold teeth and the Viennese JayBee, that one I especially love for the very warm pumpernickel or the corn ryes with seeds I carry home in a moist paper bag fingers working sweet onions off the onion rolls No dainty Chock Full O Nuts cream cheese and date "n nut, no Sutters pure butter cookies from the Village, and in the east Bronx, in olden days never a Sara Lee Seven Layer in saran wrap in the fridge-- Newly smug in this foreign land of my last 4 decades; I pretend to love cardboard bagels and pepperoni pizza I forget carrying bread, forget the queerness of courtship Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet |
 ABOUT ROSALY DEMAIOS ROFFMAN Indiana University of Pennsylvania (IUP) Professor Emeritus, teaches courses in creative writing and myth and started a Myth/folklore Studies Center at IUP. She is co-editor of LIFE ON THE LINE, author of GOING TO BED WHOLE, TOTTERING PALACES, THE APPROXIMATE MESSAGE and most recently IN THE FALL OF A SPARROW, commissioned by the Governors Institute for the Humanities in Pennsylvania. | 06.03: 026 page navigation
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PETER KROK Hands of a Ball Bearing WorkerThose powerful hands, Scarred, nicked and thick Like stubs of piecework formed Out of a machinist's labor. Those hands knew the certainty Of the lathe and brutal steel And warmth of small hands Holding a dog's leash in the park. Those hands worked the second shift, Late hours when all the world was turning in. The house in its vigil rested on its paws Awaiting familiar sounds in the darkness. A stir. And steps. The doorknob turned. Barks would bang up the walls and stairs. Those laboring hands would greet The living room with light and a biscuit. His coming would close the evening; The house could ease until tomorrow. So night and day would go on, go on; Those hands knew what was required. Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet |
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