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SLOCUM PARK

The old men carry out plenty
of dead jobs. Cards and darts,
filing of last week's newspapers.
The afternoon wears on as if time
had nothing to do with wages
and the world wasn't shrinking
on its marketplace axis.
They cock their heads to see
that axis bent, not exactly tilted --
humped and wrinkled,
no longer fitting its green
tweed coat. Slack time, the way
the sun this time of year
leans. The fountain
for the long-gone war-dead
burbles in its stone, tasting
of street sweepings.
An old man whose job it was
to scrub its aqua innards
stands a statue at his post.
The others, always thirsty,
carry on busy as ever because
their wristwatches tell time
and there always comes
a payday.



RECONNAISSANCE

You never invited him to your house.
But a lost dog gives liberties.
He stalks your street, checking edges,
calling "Scruffy!" He walks
right past your house with its turned-
off lights, its upright trashcan and
its spotless carport (empty). Beyond
the careful lawn he tramps down
through weeds and bracken
to a pond you never mentioned.
He'll watch a kingfisher belly down
to catch its breakfast. Oh yes,
he looks for dogprints in the mud,
and anything else, and keeps on
calling a dog he never expected
to find. But he knows now
how you live.



CHRISTMAS EVE LOCAL

Five dark figures squat
outside Bert's: dark coats
against the cold, and caps;
fingers beer-warm numb while
midnight frosts its colored
lights. Three with backs
to the road watch in,
two against the wall watch
out. One drums an easy God-
Rest-Ye-Merry Xmas taps.
If you're the sheriff, they
aren't shooting craps.