Evening
Lessons
by Harold Rhenisch
stay still, my arms don’t wave like evening wind
in the tops of trees and drums don’t beat
out the thudding of my heart in its cage of bone
(polished, white, and set with brass),
where I feed it peanuts and make it dance
to the music I make on a tin box I crank and crank
and crank and crank. Sometimes I let it out
in the middle of the street where people push
to get past. It wears a cap, and a little jacket —
tattered, the gold thread frayed, a button loose.
Women in furs, sprayed in perfume — to neutralize
the mothballs — I guess — become me
through that scent, bend down and mouth
How cute, give me a kiss, and I play harder
because I know the little charmer is vicious.
When he’s done with hopping onto their shoulders
and pulling their hatpins he’ll snatch a purse,
skip down, and empty it while people clap.
I pass the hat. I don’t breathe — to keep
myself from falling in the pool of scent.
Do you wonder why I tell so much of this city scene,
the petty flirtations of my vagrant life,
of how I refuse to take my part, while you live
in your country house talking to stars and trees,
or who knows what? What exactly do you
talk to in the mountains, anyway?
It’s not me. I would have heard. When I first
met you, my heart wasn’t caged. I went out.
I danced the usual dances, the one where your partner
holds your waist, your hand, and steps with you,
in dizzying circles until you collapse
together on a bench and know — just know —
you will dance again on other nights, through other years.
But that’s not the dance we dance now, is it.
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