of Archie Ammons’s Garbage
out loud, twice, in an empty room.
Then listened in embarrassment
to hear if anyone was listening.
I’d bought the book so many years ago
and carried it with me to New York
the only time I’d ever meet him.
I’m not one for book signings, autographs;
I always figured if what I had left
at the end of life is a bunch
of signatures I’d be very sad;
so rely on my imperfect memory,
that rarely jogs or kicks in
to recover what is lost;
like what is lost from that evening,
me, standing, sweating coldly, empty,
waiting to read, the fixed rictus grin
what those around me fled from,
including Archie; and then he couldn’t
stay after because his wife was ill,
so was gone before I could get up
enough nerve to ask him
to sign my Garbage. At the late
dinner, I sat between two women
who were interested in me
up to a point, and then that point
was reached; and I sat for a while longer,
listening to some lunatic who later
became a professional poker player,
or perhaps already was one;
and then it was time to go.
I went back to the hotel alone—
I always do, the rictus, you know—
thinking death is an interesting display,
and maybe I’m caught in the grip
of a final illusion—that the light
reaching me on a given day is truly
the light of that day—and maybe
I still exist for now in an infinity
that will be revealed as an illusion,
when the countdown to death begins,
when hope is replaced by a number,
the number of days. So I walk out
each morning under many different suns,
some causing my shirt to stick
to my skin, some covering the park
in an antebellum light I sometimes feel
in certain parts of Kentucky. First,
Archie died, then that good man's love,
Phyllis, and I was never known
to him, nor he to me, except in “Part Ten”
of Garbage; and in his face as he stood
on the stage and introduced me,
and I got up and pretended my poems
were a reality as real as morning light,
or the willfulness of dinner-speak,
or the light a true poet’s face can have
as he stands in a spotlight looking
at his watch, wondering at the illusion
he has set in motion, but only
with a sidelong glance, as it were,
while he gazes beyond it, helpless,
to the numbered days, and feels
the need to get home quickly, quickly.
-- Jim Cummins
