Robinson at cards at the Algonquin: a thin
Blue light comes down once more outside the blinds.
Gray men in overcoats are ghosts blown past the door.
The taxis streak the avenues with yellow, orange, and red.
This is Grand Central, Mr. Robinson.
Robinson on a roof above the Heights; the boats
Mourn like the lost. Water is slate, far down.
Through sounds of ice cubes dropped in glass, an osteopath,
Dressed for the links, describes an old Intourist tour.
—Here’s where old Gibbons jumped from, Robinson.
Robinson walking in the Park, admiring the elephant.
Robinson buying the Tribune, Robinson buying the Times.
Robinson
Saying, “Hello. Yes, this is Robinson. Sunday
At five? I’d love to. Pretty well. And you?â€
Robinson alone at Longchamps, staring at the wall.
Robinson afraid, drunk, sobbing Robinson
In bed with a Mrs. Morse. Robinson at home;
Decisions: Toynbee or luminol? Where the sun
Shines, Robinson in flowered trunks, eyes toward
The breakers. Where the night ends, Robinson in East Side bars.
Robinson in Glen plaid jacket, Scotch-grain shoes,
Black four-in-hand and oxford button-down,
The jeweled and silent watch that winds itself, the brief-
Case, covert topcoat, clothes for spring, all covering
His sad and usual heart, dry as a winter leaf.
I have always loved and admired this poem. Loved because of it’s beautiful suggestiveness, of time place and mood.
Admired because in a few stanzas Kees has packed a novel’s worth of character development. I actually modeled my own poem after it.
Aspects of Kaminsky
(with apologies to Weldon Kees)
Kaminsky checking out a book at the library,
The unspoiled skin of the child employee,
Tight slim shape he can make out behind the counter.
Her eyes blind to him as she takes his
Library card.
Kaminsky at Walgreens, the matrons come and go,
Some carelessly dressed, still frowzy from home
Yet sexy, their merciless asses swinging.
He cringes that someone (his wife? The police?)
Might catch him in the act of his thoughts.
Kaminsky under the endoscope or the colonoscope or the MRI
His places secret even to him on close terms with adolescent medicos.
Out of hearing, “Gotta hand it to the old guy. Still looks pretty good.”
Looks pretty good to who? thinks Kaminsky.
He begins to own the body he’s seen on aging charts, stage five.
Kaminsky looking through his windshield
At the shocking night sky. Shocking, like him
It seems to have changed. The old true stars blur uncertainly
Like the traffic lights, like the dashboard numbers,
He feels…can it be felt?…blurred.
Kaminsky at the keyboard–his tractor,
His violin, his coal mine, his dream machine, his jail.
A life of typing, of ribbons and white-out,
Evanescent praise and dismal rejections tapped out
Through his stiffening fingers.
Kaminsky in bed, his wife a silent heap at his side, thanks God
On his bedroom ceiling. He has been lucky, so lucky, so far.
His watch ticks the seconds loudly in the dark. He’s lived so many.
But Kaminsky wants more. Kaminsky wants too much. Kaminsky wants to be
Young.