What is it you see out there? What do you hear?
My woman standing at the window staring out into
the light. Could be the sun, she says, hand cocked
to one ear. Or maybe the end, she adds, stretching
up on tiptoe. Anxious for any answer I wait, wonder
when she’ll turn to me, what expression on her face,
and tell me the truth of what’s going on out there
on what appeared to be such a fine day for fruit picking,
apples full round red in ripe season. And they were free,
for the grower hoped to clear the last, and feed those
who were in want as well in this costly world of ours,
grown too large for just the silver coins that do not
jangle large and jingle, sing as brightly as they once did.
Even folding money, as our father used to call it, may be
burning up out there, used to light the big cigars of men
who carry a black charge card. I’ve never seen one, but
I’ve heard you can buy anything with them, go paint
the town red or white or blue, or any which way you
choose. Now she steps back from the window, turns
on me crying and manages, I never knew how stunning
it could be, the flaming of weapons waiving there to guard
the air. So what is it? I ask, not understanding her.
Seriously, haven’t you learned anything? she says, shaking
her head, sad and angry over everything I don’t know yet.