Subway dancers

Subway Dancers  -   Susan Green

How I miss them!

On the subway, at the end of the car, three or four

Guys got on, muscles bulging from the t-shirts.

I could see their washboards through their shirts,

And the tight behinds in their sweatpants.

Bandanas around their foreheads.

Street dancers! Hip Hop!  Downstairs today.

 “Hey, yo!” one of them, the one with the bandbox,

“Listen up!

All we want is….. your money!”

Haat cha cha, hat cha cha..

Swinging around the pole,

Hand -standing with one arm, legs splayed,

Flips, pole push ups and back spins.

“Yo- ladies and gentlemen – now is the time!

Show your appreciation!”

Sauntering down the aisle with a hat in hand

As the train slows to the station.

I put in a dollar and get off with one of them.

 “How do you do it?” I say, “I was a dancer –once-

 Many moons ago. I can’t believe what you guys do.”

He stood up straighter, put out his hand.

“Thanks a lot.” he said, the “YO” business gone

Maybe you’d be interested in coming up to Harlem..

I’m in a ballet troupe up at a hundred and twenty fourth.

“Love to!”

“Gotta go..” he disappeared through the closing door.

“Yo!” I heard just before it shut tight.

Oh, the calm and peaceful sky - Central Park

Oh, the  calm and peace in our black skies tonight.

The full, round moon is traveling up and south 

And over the earth, 

Behind a long curtain of striated clouds

Traveling low and north

Beneath the blue -black infinity:

Barely a breeze,

Just a bit cool.

The moon’s circle, so clear when he
appears,

Seems to be watching 

And then

Laughing at us, teasing.

As he tripples, bows; 

Veiled , lustrous, then shadowed -

Or just a shot of brilliance -

A wink - 

Through the ribbons of clouds.

And beyond, the wide night sky,

Complete with stars

And silent.

You would never know 

The earth is shattering, burning, drowning

And people hate. Hurt. 

Under this endless ultramarine clarity,

How can you imagine

There is a struggle 

Anywhere on this earth?

The Snake on the bus.

The snake on the bus:       Nov 27

Did I imagine it?

The man in the back of the bus

With the snake around his shoulders,

His neck? -

A python, a boa - I don’t remember -

But he was telling the little girl

Who sat next to him,

That he has a little girl at home, too.

And she is perfectly safe with the snake

Who roams

From room to room,

The once-a-month feeding of a chicken,

Feathers and all, a bump, a lump,

Somewhere in her beautiful,

Scaled, elongated form,

As it makes it way down to her stomach.

And his little girl is perfectly safe.

The mother of the little girl -

The girl on the bus, - looked dubious,

To say the least,

As he asked if the little girl would like

To touch the snake -  who had a name -

Bella, I think it was,

And who, he said, would greet him

At his front door

If

He had left the house without it –

Her.

And the boa -  or python -  would wait for him,

Just as a dog would,

Lying, in this case, curled up,

Ready to greet him when he got home.

It was, he said, actually affectionate.

Now, I have no problem with snakes;

They are dry-skinned and scaly

And move in a whisper of curves.,

Which I think is

Beautiful.

But I might hesitate to have a fifteen 

Or even ten foot snake

Waiting for me when I got home

Or let my little child wander in the house

Where Bella wanders, too.

Or drapes herself over the sofa,

Or snuggles up behind a chair.

“What happens when it gets too big?”

Someone- the mother, I think, - asked.

“I’ll sell it,” he said.

“And get another one.”

Now – can this really be real?

And how did this man,

With Bella wrapped around his shoulders,

Her tongue flicking toward the window

The end of her tail hanging down like his tie,

Manage to get on the bus?

Somehow I think it is really not allowed.

But through the back door perhaps,

Where,

The bus driver would be unaware,

And why did no one, like me,

Send the word forward: 

A Sssssnake!!!!!

Someone would have screamed.

Oddly enough, I have seen him in the park

With Bella circling his shoulders;

In fact, I took a picture.

But the bus –

Did I really see it?

Or was his description to the little,

Mesmerized girl

So real

So compelling,

That I think I did.

Fleas and Feathers

Fleas and Feathers   

Susan Kohn Green

Counting the fleas

As I picked them,

One my one,

Off our little white poodle, Jolie,

And ran with each

Between finger and thumb

To the bathroom to drop it  -

Into the toilet and let it drown –

Poor thing -

Yes, this happens in New York, too -

There were just seven that I found moving

Over her pink belly, one by her ear,

Just after she had been to the groomers

For a haircut

And her nightly walk in the park.

I could actually see the dots -

Jump.

I think seven was it - but of course

The next course of action was to spray:

The furniture, the rugs, the floors,

Her beds and pillows

And vacuum it all.

And wash her in flea shampoo

Oh, she loved that!

“I thought I just did this,”

She said  - shaking.

Then wash the sheets – twice, since I did find

A couple of dead ones as I peeled the duvet cover.

From the comforter.

Oh, yes, the duvet cover had to come off

After I called the vet and asked if

I had to wash the comforter, too.

“Yes”, she said, “I would.”

The comforter is an old friend;

Maybe thirty years worth,

And I must admit, it has been showing it’s age

A few feathers seeping through the seams,

But I shoved it into the washing machine

And then into the dryer

Along with the fluffer-upper

Of old rubber tennis shoes.

Which would distribute the feathers evenly

Throughout the quilt.

And then the moment:

The removal of the comforter, old friend,

From the dryer.

The door opened.

Feathers,

Hundreds of them, like a high snow blizzard

Sprayed from the machine.

Handfulls of them flew across the brown linoleum,

Drifting, flittering, fluttering.

Into the hallway,

Over the counters.

And when I reached into the machine,

Thousands more escaped my clutches

Spreading into the air and floating.

Eluding.

Have you ever swept up feathers?

Well, neither did I.

I wet paper towels and hunted them down.

Each and every one.

And in the end my husband and I,

Opened a huge plastic bag

Over the crumpled mound that had been our comforter

And shoved it in,

Feathers still insisting on

Escaping through the crumbling seams.

Now it sits on top of the garbage can

Ensconced in a clear plastic wrap.

Waiting for Ricki to pick it up and take it away.

And I hope, that when it is sitting on the sidewalk,

No one will think, passing by,

“Gee, I could use that,”

And take it home,

Open the top –

Oh, you know what would happen.

Oh, just picture that.