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"Hurt"
by Claude Hall
Chapter Two
My one great solace in life is routine. And I have
tons of routines. I figure that, psychologically,
it's because my childhood was always so helter
skelter, but I don't know that for sure. Anyway, I
find myself putting the salt shaker always in the same
place in my kitchen cabinet. I put it back there
every time I use it. Same spot, so I will know where
it is. My bed is always neatly made up when I leave
the house and I check it before I leave the house even
if I'm just running down to the grocery store for a
quart of milk. I always buy the same kind of
toothpaste, Aquafresh, and I always brush the same
number of strokes and the toothpaste is leaned in the
corner of the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. These
things do not occur because of habit, but because
that's the way I ordain my life and give it meaning.
Tonight, however, my work routine, if you can have any
real routine when your job is driving an ambulance,
had been kicked in the shin. Both of us--J.D. and
I--waited in the employee lounge. It seemed like we'd
been waiting a long time. More than half an hour,
perhaps.
J.D. rubbed at his right hand as he walked back and
forth in the small room.
"A touch of sun," he explained. "Traffic was heavy
on
Eastern this morning. It was a close call."
"I'm sorry. It was my fault," I said. I had just
returned to my seat on the couch from looking out the
door. A tart small breeze whipped around the corner
of the building. I couldn't smell the honeysuckle
along the outside wall, but from somewhere far away
came the odor of a diesel truck. It was not a
pleasant odor.
"Wasn't anyone's fault. So I'm allergic to sunshine.
Goes with the turf."
He picked up his Styrofoam cup from the end table
beside his chair and threw it in the trash. It was
only half empty. Lukewarm coffee splashed over the
left knee of my blue jeans.
J.D. did not apologize. It was not in his nature to
apologize for anything. Didn't matter. Blue jeans
are good at hiding things like spilled coffee and
blood. But I stood up. If he was going to throw
things, I wanted to be able to dodge.
"I wish they'd hurry this meeting up," I said.
"I hate meetings," said J.D.
"Why? You think we going to be crucified?"
"Crucified?" J.D. thought about the term. Didn't
laugh. He took off his sunshades and rubbed fitfully
at them with a handkerchief, looking through each lens
carefully to make sure it was clean before placing the
sunshades back over his eyes with great precision. He
eventually added: "Good one, but little you know.
Too young. Not this time."
"It was just a figure of speech," I said.
"But quite appropriate, perhaps."
"I figure it's my driving."
"Nothing's wrong with your driving. Everyone in this
town drives like a damned maniac. A car almost hit me
this morning. The screwball was driving without
lights. Why they do that in this town--drive at night
without their headlights turned on--I don't know.
It's like an epidemic."
"Hey, maybe we're getting a raise."
"Bat guano!" J.D. snarled.
He walked to the thermostat and turned it higher, even
though he was dressed in a dark, pin-striped suit and
it was already much too warm in the lounge.
"It's too hot in here, J.D."
"Heat is good for you."
"And you're wearing a suit on a summer night like
this! Don't you ever wear anything...uh...more
informal?"
"You think I like this suit stuff?"
"You never wear anything else. Even when it's hot
enough for a bathing suit."
"Skin. I'm allergic to even the slightest bit of
light. I consider Thomas A. Edison a villain of the
worse order."
"Have you ever tried Coppertone?"
"What an absurd idea."
"I guess you're right. Absolutely a silly idea."
He paced some more. If I hadn't known him very well,
I would have thought that J.D. was worried about
something. But he wasn't worried, of course. He
wasn't the type.
"The girl is not dead," he said suddenly.
"She isn't?" I was surprised. "Why not?"
"Didn't have time," said J.D.
I fell onto the couch.
"You had plenty of time!"
"Not really."
"Has time ever been a problem before?"
"Not that I know."
"So that's why we're being called on the carpet."
"More than likely. Just thought I'd alert you about
the girl."
Out the window, I could see a football-shaped moon
sitting serenely in a dark, cloudless sky. You very
seldom have clouds at night in Las Vegas. The moon is
always extremely bright and on some nights a full moon
bathed the city and the surrounding mountains with an
almost mystic glow. In town, and especially over near
the Strip, you seldom noticed the moon whether it was
full or not; the neon lights weaved a magic that
affected your eyes and your senses.
"What's going to happen now?"
"I'm going to get my ass chewed out," said J.D.
"Only in the vernacular, I hope."
"I wish you'd stop with the corny jokes."
"I will if you'll turn off the damned heat in this
room!" I said.
He paid no attention. He began to pace harder, almost
viciously, back and forth in the small employee
lounge. He lurched as he walked, catching himself
each time he took a step. It looked awkward, but I
knew that J.D. was a highly efficient machine.
I finished my own coffee just as Gertrude, an
administrative secretary, came in. She always wore a
heavy perfume. The odor of the perfume filled up a
room and lingered long after she'd left. But there
was something else about her that I didn't like--in
addition to the perfume--and I hadn't yet pinned it
down. Maybe it was the odor she kept hiding with the
perfume.
She smiled at J.D. It was a smile with a certain
twist to it; her mouth was pulled down just slightly
at the corner.
"Mr. Braun will see you now," she said.
"Does that include me?" I asked.
"Of course," she said.
I stood up and followed J.D. through the doorway and
down a long hallway.
The building was quite new--or had been remodeled in
the past year or so--and I could still smell the odor
of fresh paint. I detested the smell. But the new
carpet added spring to your steps. The carpet threw
off an odor of old books in a library back in
Columbus, Missouri.
Gertrude turned aside into her own office.
"Shucks. I thought you were going with us," I said.
She smiled at us over her shoulder.
"She's stuck on you," I told J.D. as soon as we were
out of earshot.
J.D. grunted, as if surprised that anyone could like
him.
"True," I said.
"Who gives a flying crud?" snarled J.D.
"You've got a very sour mind," I said. "I only
noticed it for sure yesterday, but I thought that it
might be a temporary thing. Now, I'm quite positive
that it's a permanent attitude."
"Better hope it's catching," responded J.D.
We reached the end of the hallway.
J.D. knocked on the closed door. The sound echoed
down the hallway.
"Come in."
At the invitation, J.D. opened the door and I followed
him into the room.
This was the first time I had been in the office of
the president of HRT Inc. I'd met him a couple of
times at office functions, but only briefly. I always
felt uncomfortable around bigwigs and reluctant to
talk with them.
Worse, I didn't like his odor. It wasn't absolutely
foul, like the smell that filled up a room wherever
Nap was and lingered long after he'd left. Braun wore
some kind of men's cologne to cover up his body odor,
but it didn't cover it up all that well. At least,
not well enough for me.
"Come in," Braun said again as soon as we entered the
room. It was sort of like an order to come closer to
his desk, I guess.
He sounded friendly, but firm. Actually, I thought
Braun's voice was about as non-committal as
mid-morning waves on an ocean beach, but his attitude
appeared friendly.
Braun shuffled some papers on his desk, looked at them
one more time as if they were very important, placed
the papers carefully near his right elbow.
"I understand there was a mixup yesterday...that is,
earlier this morning."
"Yes, sir," I said.
"Will one of you men kindly explain to me what
happened?"
"It was a fairly bad accident," I said.
"Yes. Of course. Those things happen. That's why
HRT is in business."
"There were four dead. Another one was burning in a
car. A sixth was saved by her seatbelt," J.D. said.
"I don't suppose there was any opportunity to...to
rescue the burn victim?
"Absolutely not," said J.D. "We couldn't even get
close."
"You made sure?"
"Certainly," he said.
"And the girl who was, uh...saved by her seatbelt?
Was there a mixup in the message from the dispatcher?"
"No, sir," I said.
"We got the message loud and clear," said J.D.
"Then I simply don't understand," said Braun.
"Wasn't a practical situation," said J.D.
"A police officer was watching," I explained.
"But both of you are trained specialists," Braun
pointed out.
"Couldn't be done," said J.D.
Braun sighed. He straightened the stack of papers at
his elbow once again in spite of the fact they didn't
need it.
"And then," he said, "there was plenty of opportunity
in the ambulance. Did you know what was going
on...Chuck, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir," I said. "That is, I didn't know
what
J.D. was doing because I was driving and in a big
hurry, but my name is Chuck. Chuck Southheim."
Braun smiled--although it was not much of a smile--at
my nervousness.
That made me even more nervous. HRT Inc. had the
reputation of never firing anyone. But dark rumors
persisted that now and then certain kinds of employees
simply disappeared.
"Do you have an excuse?" Braun asked J.D., staring at
him point blank.
I stepped toward Braun's desk, coming between the
president of the firm and J.D.
"I'm the one responsible."
Braun stared at me for a moment. He seemed to be a
bit angry at me for interrupting his attack at J.D.
"Why?" His glared was quite cold.
"I'm afraid that I was...driving a little fast. In a
hurry, I guess you'd say, to deliver our passengers."
Braun's mouth gaped.
Then, as if he was sweating, which he most assuredly
was not, he wiped his brow with a handkerchief. The
handkerchief was totally alien to the character he was
attempting to portray; but it was a dark wine in color
and matched his tie.
He carefully folded the handkerchief and replaced it
in his suit pocket.
Everytime I had seen him, he was always dressed nice.
The pleasant wrinkles of his face, his warm smile,
gave the appearance of everyone's great uncle. But I
knew and everyone who worked here knew he had never
been an "uncle" to anything except maybe a couple of
rattlesnakes.
He looked at me.
I noticed that his eyes did not smile.
"You know we have obligations that must be met?" he
asked.
"Yes," I said.
"And it's simply not appropriate for the doctors to
have to perform what should have been your duty. Do
you understand that?"
"Yes, sir," I said.
Braun paused. He glanced out the window which looked
down on Flamingo Boulevard where it flashed across
another major Las Vegas thoroughfare.
"Perhaps the job is a bit strenuous," Braun said. His
tone implied that he definitely hoped this was not the
case.
"No, sir," I said.
J.D. merely jerked his head.
Braun evidently took that as the proper response.
"Well, I should hope not," said Braun. His voice
adopted a warmer tone. "The Georgia Dynamic Institute
boys were on my back yesterday about shipments falling
behind. They really are a bunch of werewolves, you
can take my word on that."
He laughed. But it was not the kind of laugh that
invited you to participate.
"And the competition seems to be shaping up--that
other ambulance service--and on top of all that, we
have this growing matter about the dervish. I'm
growing quite concerned about them, whoever they are."
"We do everything possible," I said. "Everytime."
Braun stood up and came from behind his desk and
approached. He warmly placed his arm around each of
us. It was a fatherly gesture.
"But shipments have to be made. And made on time.
Everything has to operate smoothly. Like a well-oiled
machine. Big business. You can see that, can't you,
boys?"
I nodded.
"A well-oiled machine," repeated J.D., but it didn't
have the same force as when Braun had said the same
words. I don't think J.D. meant it the same way
either.
"Good," said Braun. "I trust this won't happen
again."
It was both an order and a question.
"No, sir," I said.
J.D. said nothing. He stepped to the side out of
direct view of Braun. Braun shifted his head to look
at J.D., then turned back in my direction. He merely
nodded.
Both of us took it as a notice of dismissal. J.D.
beat me to the door, but I was almost at his side as
we darted into the hallway.
I was immensely glad to escape from the man's office.
I followed J.D. down the hallway.
However, instead of turning into the employee lounge,
the older man continued out the doorway into the
parking lot.
Confused, I followed.
"Thanks for taking up for me back there," he said.
"Jobs get harder and harder to find these days. For
me."
"He was coming down too hard," I said.
"You didn't need to do that."
"There's always a job driving ambulance somewhere," I
said.
J.D. stopped by the back door of the ambulance.
"I can't stand those bullshit things," he said.
"He's just got a job to do. Like us," I said.
"Grow up, will you?" said J.D. "Didn't you notice
how
fat he is?"
"Sure, but he's the boss."
J.D. glared at me.
"Tell me, Chuck. Have you been eating well lately?"
I shrugged. "You know me. I stick to pizza most of
the time. But, come to think of it, I overheard some
of the others saying that things had dropped off the
past couple of months."
"Something's wrong," said J.D. "Something's very
wrong."
"Hell, every business in America goes through lean
times. Even a business like this. Don't you watch
the news on television? The economy is sicker than a
puppy."
"It's more than that, I think," said J.D. His voice,
seldom shrill or loud, seemed almost lost. "If
anything, a poor economy would help increase business,
if I understand anything about capitalism."
"You're right about one thing, though. I'm frightened
by Braun."
"I never said anything about you being scared of
Braun," J.D. said.
"You're still right. There's something very, very...I
don't know what it is...I want to say evil, but
everything in this whole damned town is evil in one
way or another. Biblically speaking, anyway. But
he's something else."
"Right. Something else," echoed J.D.
Both of us leaned against the side of the ambulance.
A stiffer breeze had come up. The palms along the rim
of the parking lot performed a macabre dance in the
night's wind.
"Why didn't you...uh, do it, J.D.?"
"The girl? She looked at me."
"That's all? Just looked at you?"
"That's all."
"Strange," I said. I stared at him. I really
didn't
understand what had happened. J.D. wasn't the kind of
person to fall down on the job.
He stared back at me, but his eyes have always had
that listless non-glare; I could never read anything
in his eyes. I doubt if anyone could.
"It was her eyes, I think," said J.D. "I've never
seen eyes like those in my life."
"In your life? Now you're the one making corny
jokes."
"Chuck, how old are you? Really?"
"I would be about nineteen, I guess. Maybe twenty."
He shook his head. "Young. Too damned young.
Should
be playing football at some college. Tailback.
Dating some goddamned cheerleader."
I looked at the reflection of the moon on a small
puddle of water left by the sprinkler system. The
sprinklers came on every night shortly after sunset to
water the honeysuckle vines along the wall of the
clinic. I liked to listen to their soft, hissing
sound. I always arrived early for duty at the
clinic...much earlier than J.D....and usually the
reason was because dating some college cheerleader was
out of the question. But I also enjoyed listening to
the sprinklers. They made a nice, clean,
uncomplicated sound.
"I can't play football, J.D. You know that."
"Yeah. I know that."
"I would have enjoyed football," I said softly. It
was sort of nice to daydream about things like that
from time to time. Even though the Buffalo Bills had
fallen on bad times, I liked to watch their games on
television. Once, I'd gone to a UNLV Runnin' Rebels
football game. Like the Bills, they'd lost that night
under a watermelon rim of a moon at the Silver Bowl.
"I've always had good hands. Good football hands.
And fast feet."
"Good hands except when it comes to driving. You took
one corner last night and my head almost bounced
against the roof of the ambulance."
"Well, we were in a hurry, remember? But, anyway, I
apologize."
"May have saved her life," he said.
"The girl?"
"On the other hand, those eyes...."
"I've always liked girls with big, beautiful eyes," I
said.
"She's in room 347. Why don't you drop by and say
hello? I'll alert you if we get a trouble call."
"But aren't the doctors going to...?"
"Not this time. I fixed that," said J.D without
explaining to me how he'd "fixed" it or why.
He literally shoved me toward the hospital entrance.
"Scoot," he said. "Pretend she's a
cheerleader."
(to be continued)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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Commentary
by
Claude Hall
October
27, 2003
These are a bunch of lies, of course. Why
should I
tell the truth about things I don't know? When you
know what really happened, the truth is the best way
to go; when you don't know, a lie is sometimes just as
good as the truth.
I don't remember his name, I probably forgot it before
he was out the door. I had not been long on Billboard
magazine when this "disc jockey" from Philadelphia
came to see me and wanted me to write about him and
his radio shtick. He had as his fictitious sidekick,
the Atomic Mouse. He stood on the other side of my
desk at 146 W. 46th Street and did his show. Minus
the records, of course. Thank god for that!
Unfortunately, minus the wild tracks, too. If he had
any. Because he was mimicking this mouse and its
endeavors and doing both conversations and not giving
me a chance to say, "Thank you, I get the idea."
To
this day, I don't recall how I finally got him to stop
and how I finally got him out of the office. A lot of
disc jockeys in those days used shticks. Gary Stevens
in the evening slot at WMCA was almost renown for the
Woolybooger. Arnie "Woo Woo" Ginsberg had his
bells
and whistles. But most of the leading program
directors of the time knew that the shticks were on
their way out. Sort of a shame in many ways, because
some of the guys were damned good at shtick. Voices,
too. I don't know who was the best at just pure
shtick. Gary Stevens wasn't bad.
The old Andrew Jackson Hotel in Nashville should have
been wrapped in plastic and preserved as a monument.
It was a wonderful place during the annual country
music convention. Everybody was there. One year,
four country performers missed the convention because
they were making a movie and couldn't come.
Otherwise, they would have been there. And because
everyone knew everyone, you didn't have that pretense
or "organized" stuff you sometimes have today.
I'm
not sure that I would like today's thing, whatever it
is. But one night I'd just spent an hour or more
listening to Doyle Wilburn sling the country music
charts of Billboard in my face because the Wilburn
Brothers weren't making the charts anymore and I was
walking down the hall, wiped out, and someone standing
in a doorway grabbed me by the arm and led me inside
where several disc jockeys were playing guitars and
beating on chairs instead of drums; it was music, I
guess, but it was mostly the beer. They had a guy
singing on top of a standup piano and he was
complaining about the noise from the conversations
going on and they kept telling him that was the way it
was in bars and if he wanted to be a professional he'd
just have to get used to it.
In a further room Tex Ritter was telling old windies
to some guys. Guarantee you, Tex was one of the
nicest guys you could ever meet. But just about every
country music performer was nice in those days. He'd
come down with the flu or something in some distant
town and had gone to a doctor and the doctor took out
this long needle and told him to drop his trousers.
Tex said he took one look at that needle and told the
doctor, "Be careful with that thing, doc...you're
sticking that into the ass of America's most beloved
cowboy!"
During the convention, the Andrew Jackson's elevators
took years; you waited and went to the top floor and
wandered around and then, floor by floor, walked down
the stairs until you got to the lobby and usually the
lobby was so crowded you couldn't move. I would guess
that for a few days each year the Andrew Jackson was
the one place in the world you had to be.
But the entire convention was a warm and friendly--if
not often chaotic--event. One year, someone tried to
sneak in a truckload of Coors. The stories of disc
jockeys hiding beer in their rooms of the old King of
the Road were told for years and so far as I can
recall, the liquor control board failed on confiscate
a single can.
Remember the old days at the Ryman? Tootsie's Orchid
Lounge?
One night--I can't remember the motel, but it was
toward Music Row somewhere--Wayon Jennings and Willie
Nelson were performing and there was free wine. The
ballroom only held maybe a thousand, maybe a hell of a
lot less than that. I couldn't get in. No way!
So,
I wandered around back, crawled upon a loading dock
and went in and found myself on stage with Willie
Nelson and his band. He'd just invited some former
members of the Bob Wills band to join his group. Hell
of a show! And I guess I had the best seat in the
house even if I had to stand.
Another great memory is having breakfast at the
Capitol Park Inn. All morning. People would come by
and sit and have breakfast and talk a while and then
move on. Sonny James and wife Dorothy (I think that
was her name) had breakfast. Maybe 20 others over the
course of the morning. Huey Meaux, the record
producer who got into trouble a couple of years ago
for child porn, was there. I sort of liked Huey--he
was a colorful character--and was sad when I heard
about that porn stuff. That bothered me. He'd served
federal time once before for transportation of a
female across state lines for the purpose of sex.
And, yes, it was for the country music convention, as
I recall. Shelby Singleton, another record producer,
met him at the gate that first time when he got out
and handed him the keys to a new Cadillac. Probably
no one will meet him when he gets out this time.
There was a constant barrage of entertainment at the
Municipal Auditorium during the convention. Even more
backstage and on stage at the Ryman. And, of course,
constant entertainment in the rooms of the old Andrew
Jackson. Wish they hadn't torn it down.
This below was written as a teaching example during my
years at the State University of New York at
Brockport. The incident actually happened when I was
a college student myself at the University of Texas
and was home one weekend and my father, an
electrician, went up on a pole to do the job himself
while the trouble crew watched. I'd tell students
about the incident, then give them the story below as
a handout to show them how to dramatize an actual
incident, the one just discussed. Note the
subliminal. Just FYI, I was one of those freezing on
the ground; Austin, TX, is pleasant during winter,
Carlsbad, NM, not necessarily; I don't think I even
owned a jacket during those G.I. Bill college days.
"Live Wire"
by Claude Hall
An exposed wire slapped against the top of the
transformer. A fist of ball lightning exploded,
rolled off the transformer, and down the pole.
Several linemen, all serving temporarily as "grunts,"
jumped back as the deadly ball fled down the Carlsbad
street. They weren't frightened; they were just
respectful.
Ninety feet in the air, strung to the light pole by a
thick leather belt, two "hooks" strapped to his legs
and the points jabbed deep into the rotted pole, a man
worked. He didn't seem fazed by the cracking of
electricity around him.
"Lefthanded monkey wrench," he shouted down.
They didn't bite on the old joke. He'd thought the
college kid might.
"Why'n'hell you need a wrench?"
"Grunts ain't supposed to ask questions," he snapped
back and continued scraping insulation from a piece of
copper wire. The curved blade of his Buck lineman was
worn and needed sharpening.
Rain fell steadily. In the hard cold, the rain
instantly coated everything with ice, including the
man's ragged cotton baseball cap, the arms of his worn
jacket, and the toes of his heavy, high-topped boots.
He shifted uneasily, as if he thought one of his hooks
might be digging loose from the pole. A few years
ago, he'd climbed a similar pole back in Brady, Texas,
and his hooks had slipped out. He'd "burnt" the
pole
to the ground. The fall banged him up a bit. And
splinters from the pole, some as long as six inches,
took old Doc Hinchman two hours to plow out of his gut
and his legs. And, because of the creosote used to
preserve light poles, his wounds were a fireplace.
Jesus!
One of his grunts-there were 12 of them and they were
all top-notch linemen from the trouble crew and they'd
come out here to fix this for him-shouted up.
"Hey, take this."
It was a bad toss. The heavy wrench sailed up and hit
him below the ribs. He managed to grab it. He tucked
it under his chin while he twisted the exposed copper
wire into a small fish hook.
He draped the wire over the cross beam that turned the
top of the pole into a crucifix. Then he struggled
with the rusted nut on the transformer so he could
connect the wire. He hurried; this entire street and
all of the homes were dark waiting on him.
Crawling up the pole had been a bitch. He'd had to
kick ice off of the pole all the way up before he
could plant his hooks. And, lord, it was cold.
However, there was no way out of it. One of the
troubleshooters had laughed. And someone, probably
the college student, said something about "the old
man."
"Damned amateurs," he'd said and pulled out his hooks
from the tool cabinet on his truck.
He'd been a lineman himself for several years and all
of them, including that smart aleck college student
who intended to go back for his Ph.D., were friends.
The college student laughed.
"I'll grunt."
"The whole bunch of you are just grunts," he'd said.
And now, with his fingers so cold inside his heavy
rubber gloves that he couldn't even feel them, he
wished he'd kept his mouth shut.
His side hurt from the wrench. And his legs were
growing numb. Maybe he'd been on the pole too long.
Maybe he should stop now-tell them he'd made a mistake
and go down and get a cup of coffee from the Thermos
he carried in his truck. After all, they were the
ones who got paid for this stuff. His job was easy.
He just went around turning on lights in houses,
putting new bulbs in street lights so that people
could find their way, talking to people if they had a
problem.
The ones who climbed poles did all of the big jobs.
But he supposed it was too late to change his mind now
and he'd have to stay up here and get the job done.
- 30 -
Our son Andy graduated from UNLV in English, has a
master's from Northern Arizona, and is now teaching
freshman English as an adjunct at UNLV while pursuing
an MFA at Antioch University in Los Angeles. His is
one of 20 Nevada poets honored on a "bridge" in a park
on Fourth Street in downtown Las Vegas. He has been
on poetry slam teams from both Arizona and Nevada that
traveled to compete in the national competitions for
the last two years.
How to Swim
by Andy Hall
You put one arm
in front of the other
and you try not to drown
you don't worry about
what other people think.
Because chances are
you'll drown if you think
about it. Instead move,
and stay afloat
tread water, dog paddle,
Whatever it takes,
and try not to drown.
Because when you
wash up ashore,
your breath will smell
really bad and your tongue
will be bone white,
and you'll look really fat,
and it will be harder
to kiss your cold blue lips.
Resuscitation should be a last resort,
but you'll still be beautiful
even if you're dead
The Comets -June 2003
by Andy Hall
You held the cosmos steady, I was thing
we watched the stars complain & vacillate
like olden days when campfires stirred our minds
through the digital oceans we pixilate
Now love's an interger graphed on math books
Hyperbolas and hyperboles fuse us
from distances far beyond our sustained looks
the laws of the universe earn guarded trust
You wanted the sun to cradle you
but then the wolf snatched up the moon
ran off-- punished by being turned into
Earth-- it made comets shimmer & swoon
& here they come to greet us with glowy song
give us nudge & embrace the cratered dawn
Claude Hall
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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