A BAD LUCK WOMAN

"Many a good man has been put under a bridge by a woman."
--Henry Chinaski

and she's all mine.
She was sick & suicidal
when she found me.
Just the kind I like.
I got her well
& she thanked me
by twisting the knife
into my innards
like she was twirling spaghetti.
She was Faye
& I was Jack
and this was Chinatown.

I couldn't quit her.
I couldn't quit her
before it cost me my job,
my money, my sanity and
nearly my pad--eviction notices
blanketed my door. Her absence
bothered me more than anything real could.
But I fought
the good fight
until her boil
became a pimple
that I sometimes,
even to this day,
absentmindedly rub.
My poems
as my life
doesn't concern her;
she cares
only if I still care
about her; only
in that regard
she's like
the rest of us.
I do not say
this is good
or bad but is...
until yesterday...

I saw that someone
from Canada peeked into my blog.
I had that feeling
that we all have
from time to time: anxious,
troubling and worse still,
curious.
I contacted the three readers
I have up there.
No, they said, not them.

Later in the a.m. I was woken
by a stiff white light
shining into my eyes & the outline
of a monster with a peaked hat.
There's a fire, the voice said,
sorry to wake you like this, but you have to get up and out; too much smoke in here.
I reached for my sweats and sweatshirt and slippers.
I walked out into my hall where six or seven other firemen were doing their thing.
I noticed my lock was busted, its entrails hanging by a thread.
Everything's OK now, one said, sorry about the lock, but we had to get in.
Yeah, I said, it's OK.

I was saving money to buy a comfortable chair and light stand so I could read and watch whatever.
That's all gone: 400 for a lock and house call; New York's a stick-up without a gun.
She probably knew that. I don't know how but
I know she knew
that.
Chop Suey anyone?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

WE FIX LOCKS

Mailbox
nothing
today.
My super nurses
his magic cup
of orange juice.
I open
and close
the box
in the same motion
shut: no money,
no letters,
no mirrors--technology
has rendered that
mute. Just a card:
We Fix Locks
cheap, 24 hours.
It no longer matters
whether it's broken
or not. Long ago,
when I knew
her time was offered
as a matter of course,
and encouragement screamed
for my father's hammer,
the tumblers set
to zero. Frozen
in a particular mathematic.
Jumping to extremes
but staying put.
Shadows of ice.
Maps
as meaningless as morning.
Nothing,
except locks
cheap, 24 hours
while my veins flow
with unarticulated fire.

Sitting,
no good;
standing, worse.
Outside
trouble;
inside
more trouble.
Worms fall
from the sky
disguised
as rain
while the wood
around me
begins to
weaken...

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013