The Street, and: TV in Black & White

The Street · Gary Soto Not far From the cat dropped By a .22, among The slouched weeds Of South Fresno, Or the old janitor Pasting bottle caps Into a scrapbook, Prieta is a 5-year-old At the kitchen table Coloring a portrait Of God, in the blank face Of a frying pan. She rings his eyes Green, beards his chin In fire, crowns His head with a halo That is little more Than a dinner plate, Little less Than the hubcap Wheeling free Over the deep ruts In Malaga. Where his hands Reach out, offering A flower hooded In the approximate light, There is scribbling She tries to undo With an eraser And a string of spit. It never looks right. The shade Of the back porch, And Uncle is doing push-ups On his fists, His dog tags ticking Against the cement Each time he goes down. 10 · THEMISSOURIREVIEW When the cat comes Near, he spits and she steps back To sniff the air For a pigeon Dropping fruitlike Or the rat who nibbles Dropped popcorn In the presence of a broom. Or it is perhaps the hen Locked behind wire Whose fleas will scatter When her neck Is a loose tube Of feathers And her claws Quiet into roots. Grandmother shuffles From one fruit tree To the next, her hands Skinned with dirt, Her breathing A hive of gnats. She is Indian, My brother believes, And lassoes her To a fence With the rope That pulled a cow To its death, A sow to market, A piano To the third floor— Sparrows circling As it raised Past an arena of trees. Gary Soto The Missouri Review · ll Poverty is a pair Of boots, rain, Twin holsters slapping His side, and a hand Cocked into a pistol. When he points And the smoke lifts, She is gone In the notch He scratches into his wrist. Tm the child In a chinaberry Flicking matches Into a jar of flies, wingless And frisking Themselves empty. The lid closed, Smoke knots and unknots From the hole I poked So they can breathe. I shake them, And they are a raffle For the ants, A small cargo For the wind To haul into the smeared Ash of evening. This will be hours later. For now, the sun breaks Above the houses, Lifting the shadows On their scaffolds. A car rattles From the drive And stalls in A great sigh of steam. I see this and note That when someone calls No one has to go. 12 · The Missouri Review Gary Soto TV in Black & White · Gary Soto In the mid-sixties We were sentenced to watch The rich on TV, Donna Reed High-heeled in the kitchen, Ozzie Nelson bending In his eighth season, over golf. When he swung, we hoed Fields flagged with cotton Because we understood a sock Should have a foot, A cuff a wrist, And a cup was always Smaller than a thirst. When Donna turned Over a steak, the onions Rung with tears, We turned grape trays In a vineyard We worked like an abacus, A row at a time. And today the world Still plots, unravels with Piano lessons for this child, Braces for that one, Cheap booze and the crack Of ice in a paper cup. So if the electricity Fails, in this town, A store front might Be smashed, sacks may find Hands, and a whistle Point the way. If someone steps out With a black & white TV It's because we love you, Donna, We miss you, Ozzie. The Missouri Review · 13 ...