Morgan Michaels Poems

In the station they saw lots of whey-faced Amish who looked remarkably like Hassids, thought Donnie, with their yellowish beards and wide-brimmed hats. With a handful of others they waited in the dimness, illumined by vending machines. Donnie tried to think warm thoughts, with only middling success. Some of those waiting had lap-tops that chimed the arrival of every new e-mail. Donnie said he was still hungry and sent Ronnie to the door to see if there were any restaurants- even a pizzeria- nearby. Grudgingly, Ronnie obliged. Crossing the floor stiffly, he peered out into the driving snow and, returning without a word, shook his head, no, and sat back down. After a couple of hours on the hard benches, the Chicago train arrived and they boarded. There would be a change, they knew, in the wee hours, but they tried to sleep as well as they could in the comfortless seats, that seemed scientifically designed to instill the cramp and revive sciatica. After a while came the predicted transfer. They disembarked from train # 1 and entered the freezing night air, instantly awake. In sullen, silent queue, the passengers marched with their baggage along the dark open-air corridor formed by the stationary trains, the snow crunching underfoot. As the second train pulled away they again tried to sleep. Very early in the morning they reached Union Station where they stopped for good.

Since check out time at their hotel was noon and they had plenty of time to kill, they wandered across the street to the Head House, with its famous Corinthian colonnade. As Ronnie sipped coffee, Donnie studied the ceiling of the grand old structure where 'The Untouchables' was filmed, his mouth a perfect O.
...

He had a list of architectural marvels, starting with the Sullivan buildings (and Adler, of course) that he little doubted he'd get to.

'Amazing', he thought, 'how so bright a light could wind up on skid row. That's life', he said.
...

Overnight, the porch tree has burst into bloom.
Well, how do you do!
Malus sargontii, I think it's called
according to the tag on the twig
...

They sped along the Park, past the museum with its twin bronze lions. Donnie shivered with pleasure at the sight. He wanted to see La Grande Jatte, and the works of Grant Wood, who never married. Wood, he thought, was a greater painter than Bellows, who had. Such was life. He also wanted to see 'Nighthawks'.

The cab stopped at the door of the spare, cheap motel and they got out. Cautiously, they carried their bags across the wet floor to the elevator, which carried them to their room. There, they emptied their suitcases into drawers. Gruffly, Ronnie explained to Donnie the workings of the remote, as if he were a dolt, and Donnie was soon stretched out on the bed watching the dismal news, his head flexed forward on the pillow. Each station gave the recit with fresh szouris, the daily tragedy inescapable.
...

In between bouts of business Donnie saw La Grande Jatte, Nighthawks and a slew more. Then, he saw Symphony Hall, the Blackmore and quite a few surviving Sullivan buildings, all without his brother, who had to go back out to the lawyer's because he left his knap-sack there. Finally he paid and with that, sighed, feeling he'd done what he could. Business done, they left Chicago and caught the train home. The ride back was even worse- a reprise of the ride out, but with track trouble. Donnie was relieved when the uncomplicated Philadelphia skyline bobbed into view. With little sentiment, he bid Ronnie goodbye at Thirtieth Street and sat down on a bench to await the New York train.

'Home', he thought. So much for quality time.
...

They hung up and time passed.

Donnie liked to do things pronto. It was his nature. He even made lists. Nothing gave him greater pleasure then to strike an item from the list by drawing a line through it, marking it done. His hand reached for the phone. It wavered in mid-air. Then, slowly, he drew it back, grabbed his pencil and returned to his taxes. He had an appointment with Mr. Goldbreit next Thursday and wanted to be ready. Soon, he forgot the call, altogether.
...

Donnie liked the Times and found it useful. For budgetary reasons, he'd stopped having it delivered, the fate of average New Yorkers everywhere Capitalism was prevalent and the yen to insure profit, a given. Such insurance demanded lots of idealism from the taxpayer, which Donnie was prepared to give. Capitalism even seemed poised to obscure the immigration issue- cheap labor in disguise- in a wash of sanctimonious palaver. But, out-sourcing, whittling the work force, inflating rents and slashing re-imbursement in no wise dampened his zeal, for he ws a Democrat. These things could kill a city, he admitted. But, he remained devoted to the squib- especially the editorial section, and continued to buy the pricey Sunday edition.

On that day, after carefully scanning the Arts section, he would pull the now-colorized folios into units and slip them into a wicker hamper dedicated to receive them. From this account he made, withdrawals, three per day. The smoothed-out sheets fit his birdcage perfectly. The cage even had a drawer that slid smoothly out to take them. Each evening, Donnie was pleased to see the pages heaped with bird guano in different stages of consolidation. He was especially pleased to see the editorial pages so covered, and as he fed it coffee, he asked the bird whether it found any particular viewpoint to its liking. The bird would cock its head and stare back, quizzically, its pupil dilating and contracting, mutter something and select a grape. Coverage of Dr. Oz got similar treatment. But even that pleasure got to be a bore, in time, and he chuckled to think how once he was afraid to share with it a cup, for fear of turning into a large, gray parrot. That fear, in time, fell away, too, though.
...

It was about the time he cancelled his subscription that Donnie met Marilyn. Oddly, she worked for Times on-line edition, in charge of subscriptions. They met downtown at a book fair, over a volume of Durer wood cuts. It was practically love at first sight.

'Have you a favorite'? Donnie asked.
...

She's been to a surprising number of places and had lived in the south of France.

'What was that like'? asked Donnie.
...

The next time they went out was to Lion King. Donnie saw videos from the back of a cab, and was impressed by the scenes of transformation, man to beast and vice versa. It was like cinematic Ovid, he mused. Donnie thought transformation topping. He couldn't tear his eyes from the screen and watched the video from the cab seat even after getting a receipt from the puzzled driver. Then and there he determined to take it in, and wondered would Marilyn be up for it, too.

'If I must', said Marilyn on the phone that night, 'but you owe me big for this'.
...