Crossing Over

CROSSING OVER / Gary Soto I cross that wiggly line of Mid-thirties. What do I find? Green lights turning yellow, cars With little or no shadow, Some rain, some bald men stopping For a dropped comb. From here The neons are fuzzy with Ls and Ts. The grand theaters Are huge in their loneliness And the smart women, rouged Like awful bruises, have taken Their own kind as lovers, Or no one at all. I cross Over. It's not what I thought. My flesh is stilling yapping flesh And my eyes a tangled red That almost whiten by noon. I should think in fall fashion. I should hold doors for women And chit-chat about money With bald men. I can go far They say. Politeness is in. I should smile, not leer, Shake hands, not think where to kick. I can. Last night I grew tired Of watching my young brother Crease a white line on mirror And dance with a woman whose Bottom moved like a tired flock. I drank beer, muttered little. Smoke made scarves in the air. I grew tired of that trick And love's greasy blouse on The dance floor. I drank beers, Did a little mirror, and woke Alone, with my pillow dented From cheap tricks inside the head. The Missouri Review · 287 ...