The photo is from 1978. My son, his truck. Behind him, my truck.

Monday, March 14, 2011

Who's Screwing Who?

Thursday, March 14, 1985

Fernando bought a condo
in southern Palo Alto,
two bedrooms with a view
of Denny's and the Viking Motel.
You can park underground.
You can elevator straight to your curtained room
and never know the phase of moon.
To enter the building you must punch
keypad buttons in a bunch,
which stops Jehovah's
Witnesses from their little chats
and also limits
dogs and cats.
Fernando's friends send cards
saying "Congrats on making partner,"
and, "Who's screwing who?"
Fernando's a smart fella,
he hired Isabella
to pick his sofa, his rugs.
Does he do drugs?
Isabella hired me.
For the usual fee
I install Fernando's lights.
I overhear fights.
Fernando on the phone
is in a combat zone.
"Where's the payment on the Porsche?  You
     know I'm a lawyer?"
Fernando seems as tender
as a barkeep's Waring Blender.
And yet. . .
                 and yet. . .
Fernando reads.  Piles of novels
     I wish were mine.
He hangs art on his walls.  All modern,
     all from New York.
Dining alone, ribeye steak.
Flabby handshake.
Eyes like a wall, grayish-blue.
Age, thirty-two.
Never married.  On his desk,
a framed photo of his sister.
Psst.  Hey, mister.
Hey Fernando.
Try to love somebody.
Love her hard.
And when she becomes
all your mondo,
sell the condo.

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