THREE FOR JOHN CHEEVER

Abstract

6 1 R T H R E E F O R J O H N C H E E V E R J O R D A N S M I T H 1. The Train Half-darkness, the suburbs, a scattering of jewels, The winter river a silver chain, the train A clasp, as if she ran the bracelet (coolly, Absently) around her wrist and then again. And now sleet pings like pearls on the glass. She watches the little commuter stations pass, As someone’s watching her: worn khakis, tweed, Loosened tie, got on at Ossining Between the prison and the yacht club, needs A drink, Sinatra singing Ring a Ding Ding, A better look at her legs, a cigarette. He knows no end to what he needs. Not yet. And her? He’s going to ask. Well, no, he’s not. He sees the way she runs the bracelet through Her fingers. He knows what she forgot On the hotel bed stand. He knows the rough Comforter, home’s bittersweet bedside light. He’s going there too, like her, in love, in flight. 6 2 Y 2. The Little Houses The little houses behind the railroad tracks, Frame houses, a porch, a few bare steps, Scaled paint around the window frames, and back, Behind the shed, a mower, trash in heaps. You think, I know those yellowed blinds, The torn one, the one that won’t unwind, No matter how hard it’s pulled on the first try. The babysitter lives here. Her father drinks. Her mother dead or gone. You’d almost cry, Dropping her o√ to dishes in the sink, The old man’s snores and whines. It’s like a song, Sad, but tiresome now, gone on so long. Well, that’s what you’ve become, the pitiless Coiner of soft phrases, the counterfeiter Of kindness, touching the shoulder of her dress, In benediction? No. She knows what’s bitter, What’s not. You hear the bolt shoot in the lock. She’s sold you short as any common stock. 6 3 R 3. Dogs in Winter I’m x-c skiing in the little park Between developments, my Springer lively, Unleashed, coursing from side to side, his bark An uninterrupted interrogative. I stop, listen. Jupiter. A woman’s calling. Jupiter. Of course snow’s falling (the weather changes when a god comes near), Suddenly. Tracks of my kick and glide Progress are lost behind me. Her voice veers Closer, something answers, and by my side, Coat thick with snow, my own dog shivers, sits. We’re waiting to see what comes out of it, This squall with its sharpening wind. Then, Jupiter, And from a stand of pines, a golden head, Big, shaggy, as dumb as a two-by-four, Retriever, in his mouth a chunk of bread Meant for the feeder. He’s god’s reverse, this birdDog chased by Leda, his name the flesh made word. ...