Time is a Toy: The Selected Poems of Michael Benedikt

Arnold

129 arnold I still don’t quite know what to make of my best friend, the one on the city hockey team who used to play right wing while I used to play left wing. And we had such a good time, afterwards, in the country where we once set up our booth, and he sold painted clam-shells and I sold lemonade at 5 cents the sip or the shell. But then, somehow, he became a famous lawyer and I became a famous golfer. But—quite apart from that—what I still can’t quite make out is whatjusthappenedlastnight.Hiswife,Sandra,calledmeuptosaythathehad justfloatedoff intospacelikeabubble,andtoaskhadhe,eveninhischildhood years,evergoneanddonethatbefore?“Really?”Icommentedcoldly,“Abubble?” “Yes,” she snapped, “a bubble.” It was then that I knew she was lying; she was lousywithherlies.Thewell-knownsayingisright,aboutanelephant’smemory beinglikeafamousgolfer’s.Iknewwhathemusthaveresembled,ashefloated off into outer space—no bubble; but his back like a beak, his legs like a couple of fuselages, his knees like fleas, and his lips like lovely ailerons. I’m sure that the soles of his feet, in black silhouette as he ascended, were flipping happily aroundinadance,likeblackangelwings.Andoh,I’msurethathisoutlinemust have been just like a pretty pink heart. Oh, Arnold, did you have anything to say as you left us all forever? Oh, Arnold, Arnold, you and your stupid name, oh you, my long lost true love, lost long before any golf or the law. ...