Je ne ferai pas la guerre
contre vos moulins.
I remember the first TVs;
Friday Night at the Fights,
Gillette commercials, louder
than the blue-collar crowd,
blue cellophane over the screen,
to block out the snow.
Hot summer nights, scaling perch,
my dad in his boxer shorts and shirt,
passing out beers. The smell of pine
outside, streetlights dimmed
by ten o'clock.
The Eisenhower years. Wealth
and baggy-pants Republicans.
A flocked look of potpourri,
gaze without purpose, national
calm. The doldrums.
Interrupted Milton Berle.
They'd fried the Rosenbergs at last.
She took four times. She was
the stronger one, I thought.
The Tigers were mired in last place.
Couldn't get out. Ferris Fain,
good glove, no hit, all finesse.
We thought he was queer.
Anata-no namae-wa, nan desu-ka?
Japanese fathers, kept in the camps
in California. Just in case.
The war never ended. They kept
right on bowing their heads.
We took it as a sign of their quilt.
Verde, que te quiero verde.
Sad-eyed Lorca died too soon,
long ago, far away,
before TV.