SAMOVAR

Once, doctors who failed to cure the prince
Would have been executed, or at least
Been turned into lizards or toads
And released into the dark woods
But modern times had come, so the Tsar
Sent each of them home with a certificate,
A small samovar  and a signed photograph.

THE SAD END OF THE REVEREND WILLIAM JOHN LOFTIE

After weeks of troubled dreams he woke to find
He'd become a leading authority on gravel.
If his life depended on it, he could not
Pretend to mistake lag gravel for pea gravel.
Bored beyond endurance, he listened
To his voice explaining why Krumbein phi
Is a better scale to use than Udden-Wentworth
When talking about sibiclastic rock.
(He often talked about sibiclastic rock
Until none there were who'd listen.)
When he came to his sad end, driveways
For miles around were draped in black.

IF YOU'RE PLANNING A VISIT

By decree, the Red Duke haunts the garden

Tuesdays and Thursdays from twilight to dawn;

The Mad Monk has it Mondays but only

October through January or if the moon

Has been called away on urgent business.

The Wronged Lady In A Pale Green Dress

Appears other nights, unless she is indisposed

Or on tour. When that is the case, her understudy,

The Girl Who Carries Her Head In A Basket,

Will juggle, dance, and tell fortunes.

IN LEMBERG

When she slept in Brooklyn, her rest scant and uneasy,
My grandmother Esther walked the streets of Lemberg. There,
In 1922, she met Joseph Conrad. Not the version who still
Walked in daylight but the one who'd taken
His uncle Tadeusz' advice to forget the sea
And go to the famed University of Lemberg.
He'd become a lawyer and married a Magyar flautist
Who died on a cold February afternoon
At 4:35; he'd written down the exact time
And always kept the note in his wallet.
As he aged he became unhappy at being unreal
He'd sleep for weeks then walk through dreams
Desperate for food and a bit of company.
Through two years -- he and his other both died
In 1924 -- she read him Yiddish translations of his works.
Their favorite was always Nostromo;
They wept together over the fate of Martin Decoud.

TRAIN

More real than most things

The train made of its passengers

Shadows and sea glass.

Its high tracks are gone,

 Hauled away with the motormen

And the conductors. The night

Says nothing; get on board

Since you will have it so.

ON THE EL

Tearing down the el on Third Avenue

The contractors skimped on the work;

The market in shadows was poor

So they were just painted over and left.

Sometimes, during the debatable days

Between year’s end and year’s beginning,

The shadows cast the great work up again

Mile on mile of track and platform, girders,

Turnstiles, machines selling gum for a penny

Or soda for a nickel. The trains rumble by,

Passengers idly watching the street

Or lives lived beyond uncurtained windows

Look! There I am, holding my father’s hand

Looking at myself, pretending I’ve grown up.

CORRESPONDENCE

The minor official

Who became the God

Of calligraphy

Was the first to respond.
To the ad: "I

Am old

And lonely

And will answer all letters."

Being not busy

He writes her often

Since he’s not

Received a prayer

Since 1963.