OLD MEN CLUTCHING

by Jay Passer

old men clutching transistor radios glued to elephant ears
cream white Schwinn bicycle
photographs bordered and yellowing
body more of an exclamation point or less of an apostrophe
a baseball between the ears
bicarbonate of nowhere near and hardly heard
skipping stones flat over the cold stream
birds
and old men
and radio programs
and tape recorders
the satisfaction of a hit song recorded quite primitively
the air a song of photographic memory
a home made meal out of a can
the first microwave
every man wearing a fedora
every woman with a slip beneath
saccharine for the coffee cup
wars declared
books condemned
and old men
and newsprint loose on the fingertips
and domestic factories teeming with strife
paintings of lovers and angels and fauna
terrifying gods and saturday morning cartoons
a lunch box
being told to quit sulking and go play outside
the sunshine a normalcy of utter crescendo
the first
skateboard
tobacco rolled with rice paper
a box of matches advertising an auto repair shop
bright candid coloring crayons
Sunday morning delicatessen spread
old men
muttering at formica tables
cigars and coffee in chipped ceramic cups
a pain between the knees
hornets and
horseflies
rope ladders and swings and firecrackers
the smallest frogs imaginable over bare feet at the creek
the sun again and again
a one-eyed dog
barking
cold beer from a pop top can
low chatter over the radio dial
the first light like the last canvas of a master painter
blades of grass tickling the naked back
endless space