Uncle James Parks, Fort Scott, 1949, and: Pool Hall, Fort Scott, 1949, and: Fight

Uncle James Parks, Fort Scott, 1949

      after a photograph by Gordon Parks

He sits there spectacled, hunchedto peer over the crook of his cane,clearly ready for whatever elsethat may happen to him—drought or famine or pestilence,the death of his last friend.Garbed in old man’s hat and clothes,his profile shows little he hasn’t seen,though if not the Jardin des Tuileries of Paris,certainly rabbit-tobacco and prince’s plumeof Kansas in the spring, and if seldomany peace that passethall understanding, then at leastin this instant before the shutter closes,as he seems to be thinkingon a single, quiet thing.

Pool Hall, Fort Scott, 1949

      after a photograph by Gordon Parks

Both building and sidewalkare as grizzled as old beards,as pitched as lean-tos, butcharming enough for five at leastwho’ve gathered there this day,from right to left, three casually posedin an out of plumb doorwaywhile two older othersprop beside, and sit on, a near windowsill.Among the grouping of three,a short, middle-aged manwith an early paunch and light fedora,is tilted in front of onewearing hand-me-downswho could be school-age stilland under cap a taller otherwhose countenance is just hiddenby chiaroscuro. Of the two elder menwho look to be lifelong friends, whoa generation before, might’ve beenon that same threshold, nowthe standing with his dim crownat a jaunty angle to matchtwo pieces of his suit, and hands in the pockets of brighter dungarees,appears to be telling a talethat his buddy already knowsbut listens patiently to, his nearly white brimrolled in cowboy fashionjoined with swarthy dress coat,faded overalls loosely cuffed and dull brogans, pluscleverly turned to face the camera,though checked by its leash,his jet greyhound—such a sleek, aristocratic beast.

Fight

      after a photograph by Gordon Parks

Almost pirouetting, Red Jackson it seems,has just missed with a wild haymakerthat nearly takes him to his kneeswhile his pompadoured opponenton tiptoe, as if about to take flight,has cocked a stabbing rightlike an archer drawing his bow.Blurred and overexposed, what an alien world this isto the perfectly focused and posed shotsof a gold Vogue hourglass,her perdition red lips, fingernails, and satin pumpsmatched with tight décolletageas she stands at a red doorwayin most flattering light, to lovers Bergman and Rosselliniin a small boat off the coast of Stromboli,their stylish rainwear carelessly spattered,to Miss Streisand in elaborate Dolly costumeagainst a lavish stage set of lavender blooms,and especially to the white egret choirperched on dark boughs of mimosa maybesilhouetted by Prussian blue sky.And yet here they are too,part of the same collection, caughtwith the same tool, these teen championsfrom Harlem gangs, both in baggy secondhand trousers,Red in plaid outing flannel shirtand the opponent unbuttoned with sleevesrolled up for work, now scuffling for life,like the Hector and Achillesthat were being studied in some school.