Jerry's Dog, and: Impact, and: The Price

Jerry's Dog

for Jerry Ferrone (1918–2003)

"Oh God, that looks like Jerry in the road!" –
near the top of the grassy slope that rolls down to his house.
He's holding a hammer with his cane in his left hand,
and a lug wrench in his right,
and is whistling to the west –
as if calling a lost dog home.
He gives me his tuneful hell-ohh as we approach –
then introduces himself to my husband
for what must be the fourth or fifth time
(though Jerry's our newest neighbor,
he's told us he's seventy-nine).
Again he tells the story of his life –
the piano lessons he longed for as a child,
the way he taught himself to play
in just one key, how he won his Jeanie
from the likes of Errol Flynn, and the house
on the island where they raised eight children –
"a few of whom, have married outside
their religion or race: That's what America is today,"
he says, pleased to have played a part in it.
I'm concerned that he won't make it
down the steep slope to his steps.
"Were you repairing something?" I ask.
He notices the wrench and hammer in his hands:
"I don't know – I guess so," he laughs.
I'm sorry I've embarrassed him and try to
change the subject: "Has your dog run off?" I ask.
"I don't have a dog," he says, bemused –
"I haven't had one for years."
Then he sees I'm embarrassed –
and tries to help me out:
"How about you?" he asks. "Do you?"

Impact

I saw it coming – and no time to get out of its way:
Slowly, slowly – as when I watched Lena
falling headfirst from her stroller –
it took a lifetime for that one black eye,
she was all right otherwise.

Slowly, slowly, just as Richard and Ellen described
their van rolling over toward the gully by the highway,
where they crawled out alive,
and knew there must be a prayer for such moments –
but who knows the words?

Slowly, slowly, this was nothing I thought –
then it struck – wheeled – and scraped,
I leapt out in a rage –
wondering what I'd do next – as I sized up
the dent – and that listless old man

who had shoved his cart – straight for my car –
down the incline of the parking lot,
standing there so vacantly, not even saying he was sorry –
just staring, staring – waiting for the universe
to come down on him

– until I shut my dented door and drove away,
as silent as God on his better days,
or whatever keeps us safe, or at least reminds us
that it might have been worse –
what we might have become.

The Price

It's ninety-three. But cool in here –
the Fashion Bug at Saratoga Mall, where I've stopped
to check the sandals on the rack behind the counter. The only
other customer is applying for a credit card –
though he's hardly the "fashion type."
In fact, he's quite disheveled – unshaven with graying
stubble – and overweight: his sleeveless tee-shirt
has to strain around his waist, and his shorts hang low
from a nail-notched belt, and Christ swings down
on a silver chain.

As I try the sandals, I hear his answers to the questions:
he was born in 1951, has one dependent, his wife.
No, he doesn't own a house. He rents. No, he's not employed,
he says with alacrity – eager to please with his only
stock – his honesty: he's on SSI: "Seven-hundred fifty a month."
But after rent, utilities, something to eat,
and gas for the "used Dodge pick-up"
he makes payments on each month, I wonder where
he's found...