Frankie's Poem

33 FRANKIES POEM is missing. Because what's missing here, and not only here, is Frankie's first lesson (after 32 years put off he's nervous as a cat, but the woman sits him down with A, B, C, etc. worrying to bits a gnawing sleepless rat) because without him between these lines, as between the lines of bilingual signs in emergency rooms, here is a terrible wound Because where are all, or just one of 34 his sentimental letters, soul notes, his pages of roses and moons, of 'treasure' where, his playful machismo not to be condoned, and yet where is the gala he is, the party wherever he goes because without this even labels on soup cans are ghastly, tin, stripped of the simmer and whiff of cream of asparagus, of chicken noodle (where is it the first, unrehearsed note to his tutor, a tart 'X is a brat' to tease her, but also to pay her off, what she has given him letters for) because with this 35 poems may be poems not crippled precisions, and leaflets to his life might not be bossy, puny slaps in the face but speak, eye to eye, not glazed not aside Because what's the use if we can't (coming home from work at 1 a.m. that night after the first lesson, scratching away downstairs at 3 a.m. wake Sharon up 'Read this read this' so beside himself how can she get mad? 'Huh?' handing her a scrap of paper 'Read this, what does it say?' as she mumbles, mumbling 36 it in a daze... and with Frankie pound the bed ? thought so! I thought so! I thought that's what it said!' slamming the walls of the universe, back like a boy his huge intelligence beaming, all over) because without this without him every line, but especially these, skips a beat as it sinks into something like night is a quibble in the heart of your joy and at the heart of your rage a melodrama, a lie ...