TED KOOSER
On the sidewalk in front of the parking
garage, a blind man
who has fallen is attended by three firemen, a medic, and two
policemen, all of whom squat on their heels and by so doing cover
the blind man with shadow. He sits among them with his legs
splayed out, undoubtedly feeling their shadows putting cool hands
on his face, and he reaches out a long way through darkness to rest
his white fingers on the shoulder of his seeing eye dog, a big, dulllooking
black retriever, whose tongue is dripping, for this is a
warm day in October, the afternoon sun tiny but fierce in the sky.
The dog’s plain face is bright with uneasy patience, and the blind
man’s eyes are wide and white, as if a hand had risen up from the
darkness inside him and taken his heart in its grip and pulled him
down.
Two firetrucks and a squad car idle in the
street. People are
stopping nearby to see what has happened and what will happen
next. Each of us is filled to the throat with some part of the same
one fear, as if we had been gathered here to bear it away, and now
a few of us turn from the fallen man and walk away or get back
into our cars, each of us carrying part of the blind man’s fear,
and
it seems that perhaps because of this the blind man now is feeling
better, as he gets to his feet in the opening circle and shakes out his
arms as if he were suddenly lighter.
This is not so much a dictionary
as it is an atlas for the old,
in which they pore over
the pink and gray maps of the body,
hoping to find that wayside junction
where a pain-rutted road
intersects with the highway
of answers, and where the slow river
of fear that achingly meanders
from organ to organ
is finally channeled and dammed.
Although you may wish to,
you can’t bring the past.
There isn’t enough room
in the present, which is such
a small space, with only
room for an instant or two.
And the past is enormous.
But you may choose one thing
to fit into each moment,
maybe that hollyhock flower
you picked in the alley
and turned upside down,
making a doll. How
those pink crinolines swirled
as she waltzed on the hot
concrete sidewalk. There might be
room enough for her.
This is the force field
where the warmth of our
space explorer—
powered by garlic, olive oil,
chopped celery, and ginger—
presses out against the galaxy’s
cold sparkle. The night
comes at us in a storm of stars.
My wife is on watch.
Slowly she turns the wok
in her charred red oven mitts
and steers us toward
the closest heaven.
