PLANT/Snowball "Then let me read it to you." Norman said nothing, just took out a cigarette and watched the metal railway tracks that lay between him and the sun. "Of an old tree," Nicholas began reading the poem aloud, "I must ask... What joyous child explored Your far out reaching ends, The limpness of your frosted leaves, The strength within your cragged limbs? What lonely soul has found A friend in You? What saddened soul has left You with his tears? What careless soul has carved His name, his only glory, on your face? What honest soul confessed That you were beautiful? What bitter soul has called you Just a tree? What lover's found, beneath your boughs, True love, and walked away Fulfilled with happiness? What other lover's found, beneath your branches, Shame, and walked away, And came no more? What artist gave you to the world? What poet hailed you as immortal? Of an old tree, I must say... Within your crusted, wrinkled bark So many secrets you must hide... And hide so well..." Norman's smile had faded away, his face pale. The sun burned down worse for Norman. Beneath his foot, he crushed his cigarette. A moment of silence filled the air filled the air in such a way that no odor could now overwhelm it. The silence passed on though. Nicholas said, "Could you understand it?" "Yes, I think so. But poetry doesn't really interest me." "What does interest you?" asked Nicholas. He acted concerned. "I'm not sure. I've changed my mind so much that I just don't know." "You like to laugh," said Nicholas. "Maybe you should become a clown." And Norman laughed and could not stop laughing for moments; on and on he went. And Nicholas laughed with him; he was very pleased with the joke he had made. Norman kept laughing. The break was over. Once again, Norman sat in his shaded stall and was working. It was good to be inside, away from the putrid, rotten odor that came from the meat packing plant, and away from the sun. He could hear Richard James talking with someone, up the aisle. When the talking ceased, he walked up the aisle, away from the stall and from the main center partition that gave his stall shade. He passed the windows where the last moment rays of the sun blazed through the panes; and he came to where the red-headed Richard sat. "Did you ever find yourself a dollar?" Norman asked him. Richard did not answer. Norman asked again, and the sun burned against his back, from the west. "Yes, I found myself a dollar," said Richard. "I borrowed it from Dave Carter." The sun's rays became more extreme now, soaking into Norman's back, as if it were a black hard top road. His back began to itch. He said nothing now, nor did he smile now. Richard looked at him directly; he was much larger than Norman. "Why did you lie about you lending Dave the money?" Norman still said nothing. And his back began to sweat sweat very hard. "Why?" questioned Richard. "Can you tell me?" "Because," Norman began. He said nothing for a moment because of the lump in his throat. Then he burst into loud laughter; and his laugh was not at all shy anymore. "Because it was all a joke." And he kept right on laughing. Richard would not listen. "It was just a big joke," Norman tried to explain. "That was all it was." And he just stood there and watched Richard and tried to think of something right to say. But it was no use now. He turned and walked away, like a smile, running from fear. His body felt un- 28 attached as he sat in his stall. He felt limp, and yet he did not feel. He even tried to smile, several times he tried, but each smile eventally faded. Dusk came soon, then night, and finally darkness, leaving only the silent winds of summer to tap against the window panes. And though Norman still sat in his stall, he found himself in the terminal no more. It was another time and another place. He pictured himself standing in the slaughter room of the meat plant among the dumb rotting animals. As Norman stood before them, he could see that in their eyes there was a watery fear. "I have written a poem for you all of you," he told them. He wanted to bring comfort to them. "I hope that it might help you with some of your fears." He looked down at the poem that he said he had written and then he began to read: "Of an old tree, I must ask... What joyous child explored Your far out reaching ends, The limpness of your frosted leaves, The strength within your cragged limbs? What lonely soul has found A friend in you?..." There was shuffling and squealing. Norman looked up. He tried to line the animals up, with the pigs in one row and the horses behind the pigs. It was hard. He began to tire, yet he kept trying. It seemed a pity that he did not realize that the pigs and horses could not understand his language. He looked back down at his poem and continued to read on... THE WHISTLIN WEST WIND OUTSIDE MY WINDOW/Bobbe Dabbling When a freckled, funny five I laughed and looked to my tenth year When I could peddle bikes and buy pencils And soon I was ten and tall. At sixteen, There was sighing and swinging And then pimples, primping and little prayer. But with all this, I found joy In those jumpy, jubilant years Because I was still winning... And I pointed towards twenty-one When I could don dark glasses And impress people with my sophistication and style. With less identity than at five, I sink fast into stilted thoughts My large comfortable chair And wish I could calm The Whistling West Wind outside my window. 29