Rounds

A Matter of Time

She spies his trench coat first—or, rather, sees It—to the brief exclusion of his hat And attaché. Who wears a hat these days? His gait beneath the stately maple trees Suggests this Asian man’s a bureaucrat Or businessman, content within some maze. She gazes only long enough to note He must be fifty if a day, then on She drives to work herself. But what to think At five, when there he goes, as if by rote, Around the blocks—slow ghost that’s never gone. And then it dawns on her: the sidewalks shrink To aimless tracts of all-day walkabout. How long, she wonders, till someone finds out?

Veteran Sub

His number might get called at any second, The coaches said, implying, “Be prepared . . . Or else!” Two kinds of scouts now to be reckoned With, and the words have left him slightly scared. There isn’t much that lies ahead of him, And less than nothing he has left behind In stats whose luster long ago grew dim. His status wildly concentrates his mind. Until he sees that if he takes the court And blows this one last chance, they’ll try to send Him down, or ship him out, or shop him to Some last-place team. He knows now what to do, Considering that what has reached its end Won’t even lead the six-o’clock report.

Stranger with Evangels

That it was shady made it easier, It seemed, the summer morning not so bad Beneath broad maple, oak, and elm. We had A hundred flyers each, he said, “So run!” (A task that now is no more than a blur, Worth fifty cents when both of us were done.) We never really read, so never knew What dispensation we’d been heralds to, But left his news on every porch and stoop, Delivering unaware. God knows what group Or cult or sect was paying what we earned; Our father did not ask us what it taught, And even stranger still, we never learned, Had dimes been candy, what he would have thought.