Four Poems

Joseph G. Anthony

Gunsmoke

I’ve been watching old Gunsmokes.

The dead pile up. Each killing accepted stoically.

Not spaghetti-western casualties, or cartoon dead we feel nothing about.

We register each Gunsmoke-death.

The bad guy dies, but sometimes

we understand him. We think about his choices.

And sometimes it’s the foolish, or the careless,

or the reckless who die.

The innocent, too. Why didn’t they take more care?

How could they test their weakness, against

the harshness of this world?

We need Matt Dillon who goes about his business bleakly.

When he smiles—and he smiles every third or fourth

show—it startles and unsettles us,

like meeting a jovial Protestant minister on holiday—we don’t like it.

Get back, we think, to the serious business of righteous killing.

Our whole world’s order depends upon it.

Chester, and Doc, and Kitty—all are death-row witnesses,

as are we.

Odysseus would be at home in this world. A man takes care.

The world is full of snares.

One foolish step and you are done. Give obeisance to the

god of the creek even if you don’t know his name.

He might snag you with a twisted root or a hidden current,

crack your head and leave you to drown in two feet of water,

an infant’s death for an infant-man.

Danger is everywhere.

A careful woman hides a pistol deep inside her bodice.

Matt never makes a foolish move. He shoots straight. Fast.

The smoke curls from the gun. The body lies there. Nobody is surprised.

This is a tale the Bards have told. Boot Hill is filling up.

The fellow was in the wrong place in the wrong time.

He thought he was the strongest, the fastest.

He was unwise. He was careless.

He was hasty and foolish and thoughtless.

He is dead.

Time to move on.

Green Tomatoes

The tomatoes are taking their time turning red.

I monitor the garden like a hungry child hovering

by his mother’s stove.

“So much was promised….” frets Virgil,

Reason’s voice, losing Faith

in the lingering time before the

Angel of God appears.

The Angel of God always takes his time,

a mere hint in the dark.

The hopeful are the first to spot

the rosy dawn to come,

holding on, in the damp gloominess.

The quick to doubt despair.

No matter.

I pick one massive verdant fruit, lying

helpless on the ground, already cracking

at the base.

I will hide it in a brown paper bag

and let its redness surprise me in a day or two—

a beautiful sunrise after a night of clouds.

Men Aging in Public

I remember the first time

a young woman offered me her seat.

I was more startled than insulted.

Now on this last trip, women,

always women, jump up when they see me,

leaving me to wonder just how elderly

I appear? Mostly, it’s sturdy middle-aged

females, accustomed, probably,

to taking care of the infirm. I

wave them down, smiling thanks,

though really, can’t they see?

I’m a stout 33. I just borrowed

this old body. It’s not really mine.

I notice guys never jump up.

Oh, one climbed reluctantly

to his feet when his companion did.

Men understand the nuances

of age and masculinity.

They coddle its fragile dignity.

So I am in Lindsay’s, the small grocery

one block away on Station Avenue

that we never went to

because it was too expensive.

But when I was grown and in charge

I’d go down and really

it had good hard rolls

and fine prosciutto.

Three Italian ladies are chanting

all the Italian names of cheeses and meats

like they’re at a shrine and I am thinking, wow,

this is the real thing though

it’s more like 9 th avenue over in Philly

than Lindsay’s in Haddon Heights.

I join a large circle, and two trays

are shoved into my hands;

it’s become one of those places

where everybody knows how to order

like Katz’s deli in New York.

I shout out my order to counter guys

who ignore me and the guy on my right

hoping to speed me along

shoves another tray at me (How many do I need?)

which bangs my elbow into the little boy next to me.

He says ouch.

I want a hard roll sandwich and a diet soda,

but everyone laughs at diet; it’s not that kind of place.

Ok, I say, Cream soda.

I get a Doctor Brown’s, some cheese, too,

but no prosciutto.

Maybe because it’s turned into Katz’s?

I’m at the end of the line.

I had tried to buy a New York Times earlier,

but the couple two ahead of me took the last two.

Elderly, they didn’t like sharing sections

which might have been

the key to a long marriage.

Just before I pay for my cream soda and cheese,

the little boy on my left--the one I had jabbed—

takes my cream soda and throws it back into the middle.

It’s because I jabbed you,

I said to him calmly,

and he, calm also, says yes.

He knows it wasn’t my fault,

but he couldn’t let me get away with it,

and he mumbles something

about his brother.

I understand, I say, and I do

but now I’m left with just some cheese

No prosciutto, no hard rolls, no Dr. Browns,

unless I want to go around again

which I’m not sure I’m up to.