CLOSING TIME

(For Leonard Cohen)

How can the man be gone

While the basso rumbles on

Still touching tender places as it

Slips through hidden spaces seeking to enlighten

And bemoan

While he prays to be forgiven

As he reaches for forbidden

Sweets tight cupped between

A rolling stone

And his hallelujah chorus

Will forever be there for us

We will not forget (who can?)

The poet, he’s our man.  

ON PACIFIC AVENUE

 

I figure some beggars can be choosers and

When she enriches  by four quarters

The watch-capped youth who asks for

Change when he should be working a

Shift I silently disapprove.

Yeah, I know when you got, it’s easy to

Carp but I didn't always have and if

This poem sounds like the self-satisfied

Clucking of an old bird who built his

Nest without a handout, so be it

GARMENT CENTER  1952

I, who had trouble

buttoning my fly,

stood in the workroom

proclaiming my ability

to expertly fold and ship

ladies’ coats and suits.

 

After all, a summer job

is a summer job, and

forty bucks a week was

a lot of money to a

16 year old from the South Bronx.

 

“Let’s see you pack this suit”,

the bald man directed. “Show me

how you like it done”, I replied.

He raised a brow but quickly demonstrated.

 

I did my best imitation, producing

a less than perfect bundle. They must

have been desperate, I was

hired to start on the spot.

 

Gerald Harris

February 16, 2015

GREETING CARD FACTORY HARLEM, 1951

The jerry-built contraption

was topped by a sifter that

sprinkled sparkling crystals

down upon the glued

sections of beard, eyebrows

dangling gray hair

 

making up the Santa who

smiled from folded cards

over which rolled a map

with rubber cutouts corresponding

to beard, eyebrows and hair

affixing stickum in all the right places.

 

The Santas paraded along the conveyor

fresh glue glistening, snow crystals clinging,

to the end of the line where I sat

dreaming of other places, other games as

I stacked and boxed the endless stream.

 

Gerald Harris

February 16, 2015

                                                                                                                                 

WHO I AM

Often, when asked what I do, I say

I am a poet even though the truth

Might more accurately require a

A different response

 

I think I take refuge in the

Romance of that notion and to

Avoid sounding staid or

Engaging in dull conversation

 

“Really”, is the usual reaction

Which calls forth my guilty admission

That I remain unpublished though I

Read in cafes and other arty places

 

Still, I am not lying exactly, it

Depends upon the definition of the

Concept. After all, you don’t have

To pass an exam to qualify

 

So, saying I’m a poet is not to say

 That is how I make my living

It is merely a statement of preference

 To cover an otherwise by-the-book existence

 

Gerald Harris

August 15,2015

Memorial Day at Battery Park

Shells of men

Swept by wind

Utter memories

Drowned by whirling

Blades of warships

Turned to tourist

Trips around the

Tip of ancient toil

Remembering the lost

Lives forfeited to

Unending notions

Of hoary honor

Masking the horror

Of man’s inhumanity

 

Gerald Harris

May 26, 2013

CITY OF THE DEAD 

Hovels stretch

Beside the road

Crumbling tombs

Used to shelter

Life even as they

Curtain death

Who lies here?

Who lives here?

Bare existence

Barely exceeds

Non-existence 

Gerald Harris

January, 2011

Cairo