Elevator

by Barry Blumenfeld

In the Elevator at Bamberger's

Man followed me into the elevator
At Bamberger's on his knees. Such an awkward
Way to walk. The way he thrust his hips, first this
Way, then that, grunting and huffing in his
Hurry to get in before the steel doors cut
Him in two or closed him out was something
Bizarre to see. He was very nicely dressed, though:
A beautiful wool overcoat (how I envied
Him those sheep) and the nattiest felt sombrero
You ever saw. I can't tell you about his
Shoes, though; I don't think he wore any. Now that
I think about it, I doubt he had feet, or
Legs below the thighbone either, even. It's
Why he waddled that way, I suppose. Some of
These details are hard to bring back. Some things
About him tend to disappear. Things I recall
Trail away when I inspect them, as though they
Were wary of my grasp. Makes me stamp my foot
Sometimes! His eyes, they evanesce. Wait a
Minute, though. I see them. Between some boy's legs
Sheathed in poplin and a matron's fat cheery
Ass they peer at me. An eager, sly, insistent
Glance. What's he want? Don't look at me that way, I
Tell him (in my mind.) I see you. Those eyes of
His give off a light that refrigerates my
Heart. The doors slide shut. A fellow in a
Uniform manhandles the chrome lever. Didn't
Know emporia like this still used men like
That in these so-handsomely appointed lifts.
(The flocked felt on the cage's brazen bars is
Cunning.) Our commander or whoever is
Handsome, too, in epaulets on shoulder cards
That bring out nicely the prominence of his
Cheekbones and rhyme, colorwise, with the lush mop
Of hair swept back above his brow, which is the
Gray shade of death for some reason. I nestle
Close to him for comfort from the gaze of the
Other one, the one who has no feet. Up we
Go! Or down. Or both, I don't remember

She Hurt My Feelings

This woman is too fetching to
Be unreal, even though I know
I am dreaming her by
The pricking of my toes, by
How she shrugs and rolls her
Eyes and twitches a little and
Sighs with an ontological
Discontent, wishing I
Were not here or anywhere
Else, for that matter. If
She looks away, I'll wake
Up, and that won't be any
Good. Disappointment
Won't be the word for it,
Even if that's the only one
I have to use on nights I sue for
Love in ice and smoke before
I am annihilated. How
Mild my protest is. When
Rumpelstiltzkin lost his
Daughter and—let's stick
With mild diction—divided
Himself by seizing the parts
That pricked and heaving
Hard, very hard, very, very, very
Hard, I don't think it was the
Child he pined for, do you?
More like me he was.

The Elevator Operator Speaks

An ang-
el with
good tools
can do
any
thing! I'll
tell you
(strictly
entre
nous) the
movies
and the
poems
get it
wrong. I
bear no
will, ill
or an-
y oth-
er kind,
any
more than
a cap-
o's clean-
er, cinch-
ing strings
of wire
pinched from
a
pian-
o ac-
ross the
throat of
a dis-
missed sold-
ier crap-
ping his
pants with
lust for
one more
breath, just
one, just
one more
please, one
more and
more and
more please,
does. Aaah,
mercy,
which
isn't
in me
either:
one day
it's wire.
Anoth-
er, it's
an el-
evat-
or.

Copyright © Barry Blumenfeld 2005

Dear Diary

by Barry Blumenfeld

dear diary, i met a fella last
nite, it was in a taxi & he was
driving, actually. i can't say how i
arrived at such a state, but (ssshhhh) i'll tell
you in a whisper that as i glided
(i like to think of it that way) among
the billows of my skirt into the back
of that man's cab (red leather!) i was sooo
tipsy. christmas eve and ten below, and
where did my white frock coat, the one with blue
spangles to match the glitter i glued to
my eyelids, go off to i wonder. it
wasn't with me in there is all i know.
cunning, too, it was, i hated to lose it.
i lose ever so many things in cabs
and ladies' rooms, i must have left half my
life behind, all those nites of mine on the
town. well, i don't get into town so much.
half my life (the other half), what am i
doing? you know, diary dear, and you
know i could use a break once a year or
so. imagine the nerve of that fella,
getting mad on account of a tiny
accident on his precious leather seat.
i guess he never spat up after some
festivities. i ask you, diary,
is that how a real seaman acts? some
seaman. "between voyages," says he. huh!
i bet! but after i ran into the
a & p and came out with the clorox
and soaked the mess up, i thought he was a
little nicer. asking me for my number
and all. and i might call him too, who knows?
not me! i'll have to think about some things
first. like the nickname, what's up with that? and
the trick pipe and the yucky laff! o well,
dear diary, he did look kinda stacked
in that stupid sailor suit. you never
know, i guess. your friend,

olive.

Copyright © Barry Blumenfeld 2005