Geoffrey Young

The How and When of It

We were not alone in San Diego in the fifties. Bobby Smith’s father
George sold used cars and was a beer drunk. Dickie’s father Leon,
A butcher, was too. Dickie and fam lived across the street with Grandpa
Duffield who wore uniform grey clothes, rolled his own, sat in a haze
Of smoke all day and made the memorably horrible sounds of spitting

Into a spittoon. We didn’t yet have a TV, and theirs was always on.
Boxing was big (we watched Sugar Ray Robinson beat Bobo Olson).
We took in the spectacle of wrestling (Gorgeous George preening),
And Roller Derby (tough women elbowing each other in the ribs
As they pumped and rolled). There were other fathers in the neighborhood,

As well, who weren’t lushes, I’m sure, but they remained out of sight.
Mike’s father, Mr Schmidt, worked for Budweiser. Mike and I
Would come home from school and spin 45s, listening to “Buick 59”
By The Medallions & Little Richard’s “Rip It Up” and “Ready Teddy,”
Among the many. “Stranded in the Jungle”? One day Mike’s mother

Said she was sorry to read in the papers that my parents had divorced.
I said, “What?” News to me, at age twelve. The Schmidts had just been
Visited by their old friend Don Larsen, Yankee World Series hero
Who’d pitched a perfect game. When I got home I walked into the kitchen
And asked about what I’d just heard. Mom said, “Oh yes, I was going

To tell you boys. I don’t believe in divorce but your father insisted.”

Mise En Bouteille 1979

For once I’m up before Clovis
A little bleary eyed
Wander into his room he says Hi
I kiss his forehead
“I feel good here, I don’t want to go to school”

Hey! One more kiss, this time on the cheek, I say
“I’ll be right back after I shower, then we’ll get dressed
And eat a special” (always special), “breakfast”
I let the dog out, turn heat up, get wet, etc., and soon
There are orange slices, cereal with yogurt and banana,

Vitamin C, toothpaste, shoes tied, jacket zipped, he kisses Laura
Good-bye, she says, “Happy Valentine’s Day”
I have the lunch-pail, we’re walking to school
Careful not to step on any cracks and holding hands
We’re singing “I’ve been working on the railroad”

As we pass Mama’s Ribs, The Virginia Bakery, the little
Hebrew bookstore with the Xerox machine next to
The white bricks of the Polish restaurant where we’ve yet to eat
And as we get close Clovis starts running ahead
So as to be at the gate at the same time as Jason

Who is just getting out of his mom’s green Volvo.

From A to Z

When asked to remember what you ate
For supper last night, don’t make stuff up.
Get your inner file clerk to fire up
The search engine and watch it flip
From dish to dish, snagging farm-raised trout

And steamed broccoli from the void,
Or just collapse on a sofa and recall
A bowl of popcorn. You’re not talking
To yourself in an empty room, are you?
Anger lives under a roof with my ex, the one

Wearing Uggs. “Welcome to Anomaly Acres, mon vieux.”
We’ll meet in the John Beresford Tipton cul-de-sac
For an iced sip at five thirty-five. Is that a downpour of umbrellas
Opening? John Donne’s “big unruly Sunne” still doesn’t know
From wet. I’m betting a double sawbuck that today’s worriers

Will find a way to see these dark clouds as the condition
For an enlightened music. Who can set the record straight?
“Mutuality,” for better or worse, is the sound of harmonic convergence.
Only avatars of the irascible get high on their own supply.
I give up five times a day, yet crawl back for more, because each

Crumbling edge of beach sand was once a stick-drawn word.

The Day Lafe Died

Yesterday your knees turned blue
But they say you’re still breathing. I am
500 miles away. Maybe I’ve just eaten an orange
Or I just passed two seniors in plaid walking on Shattuck Avenue.
Or maybe I’m watching a yellow VW bug find a place to park in the Co-Op lot

As a mother and son walk in front of a row of newspaper dispensers.
A college kid pedaling his ten-speed with a thick red textbook
Strapped to his tandem doesn’t look up to see Roger the Lodger
Emerge from a dumpster with two packets of cheddar.
Without thinking I reach into a shirt pocket

For my Paper Brain. Or I am reading
A letter from a Los Angeles museum soliciting funds
To support a friend’s catalog. Or I’ve just proofed
The typescript of a book review for Poetry Flash.
Tea-water is boiling as the phone rings

My heart speeding and heavy in advance
Wondering is this it? Brother Bo in San Diego says, “Hello”
Followed by the words: “Ballgame’s over.”
Then adds, “Pop slipped out when no one was looking.”
On the floor of the living room I lay flat on my back

For twenty minutes or so, just breathing.

Geoffrey Young was born in LA in 1944, and has lived in Great Barrington, MA,, since 1982. His press, The Figures, was active from 1975-2005, and his contemporary art gallery from 1992-2018. Recent chapbooks include Look Who's Talking (with art by Mel Bochner); At Stake (with art by Joshua Marsh); and Monk's Mood (poems & colored pencil drawings by author). He has written a dozen essays for the catalogs of various artists.