a small child in me, dressed in dark
wool against the cold
my mother holds
my hand, holds my brother’s hand
he struggles free, runs ahead along
the snowy street, down the metal stairs
to reach the tracks the trolley rattles in on
rushes through the open door
we follow
my mother pays, tidy, she sits me down
sits beside me
I peer back at the narrow
aisle, metal poles, cracked leather
murky panes of window glass, dusty
smell
to the broad seat where grimed men
overcoated, some wearing galoshes
grunt & shift, making space for my brother
Hard Wired
by Jack Gilbert
He is shamelessly happy to feel the thing
inside him. He labors up through the pines
with firewood and goes back down again.
Winter on the way. Roses and blackberries
finished, and the iris gone before that.
The peas dead in the garden and the beans
almost done. His tomatoes are finally ripe.
The thing is inside him like that, and will
come back. An old thing, a dangerous one.
Precious to him. He meets the raccoon often
in the dark and ends up throwing stones.
The raccoon gets behind a tree. Comes again,
cautious and fierce. It stops halfway.
They stand glaring in the faint starlight.
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