Nod

It is the third of July, and the speaker finds himself at a loss as he stands in a parking lot outside a mall where for the holiday the stores have begun closing. The speaker meets someone who says he is in Security.

I

  When in the middle of the afternoon On a well-marked asphalt parking lot I came to myself standing among the SUVs Where the yellow lines and exit signs were lost, And where the July heat was oil and wave Altering the eye of everything So overhead the sun looked oxidized And underneath, moments of silica winked Out of a field of black mica,   Right then, turning about, seeing So many little lights blinking up from black, I stopped and said, “Fulton, Fulton, Just look at it, would ya: the gloves are off, But that just means they’re scattered on the mat. The entire world has parked and packed it in. Any old fight’s better having than having this. This is the flu before the fever touches you, The ache without a place to point, Shadows hiding the end of the alley And an entire block of locked back doors; This is the neighborhood of calls For children and dogs who never return, That little land where sleep lies down And no one thinks to wake her up.   Bring me back the pounding shoe and the gray Navy Flushing Russian submarines. Give me that stretch Where longing lives—space shots and Aaron up to bat, Black coffee and the small collaterals Of penny postcards, pets, T-Bills meaning what they say. Steady the hall clock’s scissoring hands So shirts are buttoned up and down at once And smiles stay fixed at flashbulb best. Give me, in short, a new deck, a fresh cut, Another deal, a winning hand, As that’s what needs some bringing back.”

  But of course there was no Fulton, As over time the cars all idled off, Till I studied the mercury vapor lights, Counted the empty parking spots Then, addressing Fulton anyways, Who’s always wandering off somewheres, And me speaking a little too bravely too, Just talking a little too much through my summer hat, Said to Fulton, said to me,     “So it begins, my rambling boy.”

  And saying that, I heard a laugh That was a wheeze that was a cough, As looking round I saw a coal go bright, go dark, Redden then fade, redden again, then disappear— Some smoker working backwards from his light, Thumb-to-finger, elbow out, till arm thrown forward Weakly as exaggerated Nixon, He dropped his hand, exhaled and coughed again, Then cleared his throat and pointed with his cigarette:

  “That lot ain’t clover is it, Bud; What d’ya think you’re looking for?”   “Not a thing,” I said. “Thing?” a little breath of smoke spoke back. “Now that’s a category, ain’t it, Bud. And a fibber of an argument as well, Much like that friend you say you got, what’s his name? Fuller, Flap? That guy’s about as real As Mrs. Thatcher sleeping in the back seat Of a Mercury, some choir singing her The hymn of human happiness and misery.”

  Stepping from the door, he stood so’s I could see. He had big teeth that made him look to smile. But he didn’t smile. Wire glasses, sunken chest, Thin tie and gray fedora cocked and caved, He stared ahead but had the backward eyes Of someone saying A while thinking B. Nodding, he said, “Wife will tell ya” (a tall woman was struggling from the backseat of an old low Mercury, a thin boy seated crookedly behind the wheel), “Wife will tell ya everything you’ll ever sing, Friend; Then how it is you will forget the words So make some up and whistle round Till you have fumbled back to where you started out.   But look you now, you out of cash, bump your noggin? Forget your number? Need a lift? That’s me. I’m in security. I make the calls: I know what holds—fire doors and...