The Last Night of the Earth Poems Read Free Page A

was
    quiet.
 
    then one day
    as we came back from
    school
    we saw the
    house.
 
    it had burned
    down,
    there was nothing
    left,
    just a smoldering
    twisted black
    foundation
    and we went to
    the fish pond
    and there was
    no water
    in it
    and the fat
    orange goldfish
    were dead
    there,
    drying out.
 
    we went back to
    my parents’ yard
    and talked about
    it
    and decided that
    our parents had
    burned their
    house down,
    had killed
    them
    had killed the
    goldfish
    because it was
    all too
    beautiful,
    even the bamboo
    forest had
    burned.
    they had been
    afraid of
    the man with the
    beautiful
    eyes.
 
    and
    we were afraid
    then
    that
    all throughout our lives
    things like that
    would
    happen,
    that nobody
    wanted
    anybody
    to be
    strong and
    beautiful
    like that,
    that
    others would never
    allow it,
    and that
    many people
    would have to
    die.

a strange day
     
     
    it was one of those hot and tiring days at Hollywood
    Park
    with a huge crowd, a
    tiring, rude, dumb
    crowd.
 
    I won the last race and stayed to collect and when I
    got to my car
    there was a massive jam of traffic attempting to
    work its way out of there.
 
    so I took my shoes off, sat and waited, turned on the
    radio, lucked onto some classical music, found
    a pint of Scotch in the glove compartment, uncapped
    it, had a
    hit.
 
    I’m going to let them all get out of here, I
    thought, then I’ll
    go.
 
    I found ¾’s of a cigar, lit it, had another hit
    of Scotch.
 
    I listened to the music, smoked, drank the
    Scotch and watched the losers
    leave.
 
    there was even a little crap game going
    about 100 yards to the
    east
 
    then that
    broke up.
 
    I decided to finish the
    pint.
    I did, then stretched out on the
    seat.
 
    I don’t know how long I
    slept
    but when I awakened it was dark and
    the parking lot was
    empty.
 
    I decided not to put on my shoes, started the car
    and drove out of
    there….
 
    when I got back to my place I could hear the phone
    ringing.
 
    as I put the key in the door and opened it,
    the phone kept
    ringing.
 
    I walked over, picked up the
    phone.
 
    “hello?”
 
    “you son of a bitch, where have you
    been?”
 
    “the racetrack.”
 
    “the racetrack? it’s 12:30 a.m.! I’ve been
    phoning since
    7 p.m.!”
 
    “I just got in from the
    racetrack.”
    “you got some woman
    there?”
 
    “no.”
 
    “I don’t believe you!”
    she hung up.
 
    I walked to the refrigerator, got a beer, went to
    the bathroom, let the water run in the
    tub.
    I finished the beer, got another, opened it and
    climbed into the
    tub.
 
    the phone rang
    again.
 
    I got out of the tub with my beer and
    dripping away
    I walked to the phone, picked it
    up.
 
    “hello?”
 
    “you son of a bitch, I still don’t
    believe you!”
 
    she hung up.
 
    I walked back to the tub with my beer,
    leaving another trail of
    water.
 
    as I got back into the tub
    the phone rang
    again.
 
    I let it ring, counting the
    rings: 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,
    10,11,12,13,14,15,
    16…
 
    she hung up.
 
    then, perhaps, 3 or 4 minutes
    passed.
 
    the phone rang
    again.
 
    I counted the rings:
    1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,
    9…
 
    then it was
    quiet.
 
    about then I remembered I had
    left my shoes in the
    car.
    no matter, except I only had
    one pair.
 
    chances were, though, that nobody
    would ever want to steal that
    car.
 
    I got out of the tub for another
    beer,
    leaving another trail
    behind me.
 
    it was the end of a
    long
    long
    day.

Trollius and trellises
     
     
    of course, I may die in the next ten minutes
    and I’m ready for that
    but what I’m really worried about is
    that my editor-publisher might retire
    even though he is ten years younger than
    I.
    it was just 25 years ago (I was at that ripe
    old age of 45)
    when we began our unholy alliance to
    test the literary waters,
    neither of us being much
    known.
 
    I think we had some luck and still have some
    of same
    yet
    the odds are pretty fair
    that he will opt for warm and