THE HOUSE OF TWO OR THREE STOREYS

I hear the requiem sirens far away
As I open the gates once again
To the two or three story brownstone
That still stood there
Amidst all our love and squalor


Life, like music, has a rhythm.
This particular poem will end with three sharp notes,
Like deathly drumbeats
From my Smith & Wesson’s
…..
…..
I’m always drawn back to the places I’ve lived in
The houses and the neighborhoods


I walk down gingerly
The familiar, gravel and cobblestone path
Carefully avoiding the yellow tape all around
The dysfunctional, pentagonal fountainhead
Antediluvian sculptures popping out now and then
Fake Renaissance scattered about…
In overcrowded gardens like
Restoration Rembrandts
With the yellow and pink gladiolas and
The delphiniums that needed watering


Some of the birds I could not recognize
How should one interpret the happy song of the meadowlark?
Or the robust flavor of a wild strawberry?
Is this a key to life in general?


Inside, I see the
Careless, onceuponatimemade, scrawls on the wall
Magnet on the refrigerator
And the photographs under it
And the memories inside them


Vaguely familiar
Like those who introduce themselves
Those who jump up and say hello
We don’t remember their names
But we swear we have met them somewhere before.


Then, in the library mist
For an instant I thought I saw a shadow
As beautiful and lifelike as a Vermeer painting
With a part-of-a-pair, pearl earring


That’s when I cried for the first time
In two and a half years
The tears are real.
What is this thing called a tear?
There are even tiny ducts, tear ducts,
To produce these tears, should the sadness occur
And the day when the sadness comes ... we ask:
“Will this sadness which makes me cry….,
Will this sadness which makes my heart cry out….,
Will it ever end?”
The answer, of course, is yes.
One day the sadness will end…..


And then I saw her old clothes,
Her hyper real clothes-
Effused with her vaudeville lifestyle….
Touching them, they reassured me
That she was there
Around me, somewhere
I stood in front of the mirror and wore her blue velvet gown


Yes, look in the mirror.
What do you see?
Is it a dream?
Are they mirrors?


Then I sat for an hour in the pendulum armchair
Which I imagined her reading Capote in
With quivering lips silently speaking each word


I searched the defrosting refrigerator
There were leftovers as though she were
About to walk in through the door
The bed hadn’t been made
Blood lay splattered on the floor
It was red, almost too red,
Like pools of tomato sauce
Masquerading as blood


From the French window, one could see
The lake with the houseboats
Across which were the croissant shops

The houseboats are still waiting
The bakers are still preparing tea
The sun still rises
But you’re not going to be there
Tomorrow morning
Or to share the sunset with me
From the porch in the evenings



I search for clues- DNA, footprints, fingerprints,
Hair strands, happiness, my childhood, my lost love…..


Our world is a magical smoke screen.
There are clues everywhere, all around us.
But the puzzle maker is clever.
The clues, although surrounding us,
Are somehow mistaken for something else
And this something else, we call our world


Why did it happen?


Behind all things are reasons.
Reasons can even explain the absurd.
Do we have the time? I think not.
Some take the time. Are they called detectives?


Today there is sadness in this world, for we are ignorant of many things.
Yes, we are ignorant of many beautiful things ... things like the truth.
So, we seek the truth
But then also the sadness comes.
With the revelation
There is a depression after an answer is given.
It was almost fun not knowing.
Yes, now we know.
At least we know what we sought in the beginning.
But there is still the question, why?
And this question will go on and on
Until the final answer comes.
Then the knowing will be full
And there will be no room for questions…..

She died, an unsolved mystery, twenty one hours ago