Two Poems
Eugene Stevenson Dusty Springfield at Basin Street East A black and white night even then, her dress shimmers with black sequins in the white stage lights, her diamond earrings make an appearance as she swivels that bouffant head of hers & the blonde hair makes way like the Red Sea. Out it comes, out of her captive lungs, that voice, You don’t have to say… better than the recording. Her throat flexes & moves, but she does not, fixed to the small stage, a step or two away at most. At the second table, the Filipinos, four of them, offspring of politicians & moguls, at ease in a night club, the rich Irish girl from Nevada, eyes wide, soft lips spread in a permanent smile, & the Italian kid from New York who still does not know how to dress at 19, still does not know she will leave him in a week for the German ROTC stiff from Long Island, & still does not know that a river in its meandering will find the sea. The plastic ashtray with its decal ID, lifted, pocketed, as Buddy Rich flails his hands & sticks in a hummingbird’s blur, the impossible grin, eyes looking into the dark behind the lights, the beat somewhere in his chest, carries him & the crowd to a roar. But it is Dusty who carries the place, the night, into the decades ahead. The faces recede, the property redeveloped, the souvenir ditched in another move, You don’t have to say you love me. Poncho Pays a Visit In the clinic, white, marbled, suffused, staff wear no name badges, patients wear no gowns. Difficult to ascertain who is who. He is there, though, through the first place, the second, into the third. Here it happens. She sees him, sees that they notice him, in all the places, one, two, and three. She says, to no one in particular, But he’s dead, he’s dead. Point to point to point, he is there on a mission: clear up some unfinished business. He is quiet as he turns, stands in the room the way he always did, charms it, owns it, inhales it, absorbs it, works the magic of osmosis. He has shorn his beard as if it were too much weight to carry after The Way. Facing her, his eyes lock on to her eyes. The voice, unexpected, He’s taking care of you. Up the switchback staircase to the right, then the left, then through the solid wall, he is gone, leaving a muffled sob behind. Some time will need to pass, to settle this account, before we learn if he has finished with the vigil or pays another visit to deliver a message or reminder or blessing. Question is Will it be for the two of us or the three of us? |
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About the Author:
Stevenson writes to understand, to make some semblance of order out of disorder, to make a still photograph out of the daily rushes. His poems have appeared in Chicago Tribune Sunday Magazine, Courier, The Hudson Review, Icarus, Paradox, and Swamp Ape Review.
Stevenson writes to understand, to make some semblance of order out of disorder, to make a still photograph out of the daily rushes. His poems have appeared in Chicago Tribune Sunday Magazine, Courier, The Hudson Review, Icarus, Paradox, and Swamp Ape Review.