Commonweal Poem by Bernard Henrie

The Post-Intelligencer, a newspaper
with a name longer than mainstreet

writes:

Expect a day of such lassitude
even ducks lie basking on satin backs,
upturned bottoms rusted brown.

Windows are wide open
like disbelieving eyes.

Boys tinker with a Ford. Two women on
a front porch lean together and kiss.
Wings dip in the birdbath.

The high school band teacher tunes
violins, first one and then a second,
lowers his head and begins to weep.

The city bus stops for gas,
officer Paul Diamond finishes lunch,
in the next county a stolen car report,
he knows the need for men like himself.

An old dog is helped to its feet and fed.
A motorcycle stirs dust and disappears.

A woman hides $200 in her brassiere,
exposes an areole and smiles thinking
how her husband would enjoy watching.

A funeral party reluctantly thins,
the deceased so loved that his death
cannot be borne by a single mourner.

Heat comes to the old folks home, dawdles
in the rafters, the serving room breathes
heavily like a pensioner climbing the stairs.

A rheumatoid hand opens into sepal bloom.
Mulberry trees, graceful as girls at ballet.

A Black couple study in the park bleachers,
she sees Karnack, Luxor and universities
founded in her name, a wind still blowing
from Kemet billows his polo shirt
into the robe of a scholar.

At six, practicing Jews walk past Mormons
to synagogue. Card players at the VFW
fish eye a large pot. At Sacred Heart,
Mrs. Ridgeway's B-5 bingo card wins
a basket of cellophaned bath salts.

Afternoon fades on the doorstep, a vacuum
cleaner salesman knocks hopefully.
A Vietnam Vet sits on a davenport, snaps
on the lamp, holds a book but does not read.

A child nestles into the ribs of his father,
a mollusk into the sea bed, dusk unfolds
like a woman undressing for her bath.

Sing-song chop of a pedaled bicycle,
The Post-Intelligencer evening edition
arcs in the air and rattles the screen door.