Richard Cole

At first you see nothing,
eyes adapting to the low light,
sky light from above,
and then, out of the dark
...

In New York, yes, the women are dreaming.
In lacework of hallways, hesitant with pearls,
In the violets of evening, one night reaching the next,
In the amber water of Victorian aquariums,
...

We sleep late through the morning and make
love quietly in the middle of the day.
We're waiting for the telephone to ring.
Someone somewhere in California is reading
...

Late afternoon, soft light, a little rain
dripping quietly under the trees.
I'm early for a business appointment,
so I wander down Perry Street, peeking inside
...

Friday morning,
gray faces in the
subway car, rocking
under the hospital
...

I've never thought about money so much
since moving to New York. Brooding in silence,
I watch how the Chinese goldfish follow
their lucky noses back and forth. We need
...

The flight attendants maneuver their way
down the darkened aisle, bending and smiling,
checking our condition. After three good
bourbons, I glance around. I'm surrounded
...

My son cries and I stumble
over to the dark crib
and he hangs on my neck,
dependent, and love
...

On the corporate hilltops outside New York
we organize and soar—sharpening
our pencils, checking off lists, accruing
whatever the visible world requires.
...

Another chapter. Eleven years of a New York
education, and we're moving away.
I cull out all the books I’ve read and forgotten,
asking myself what a man truly needs at forty five.
...

I
Working in a troubled office, you develop
a fine ear for door slams, like the managerial
'Now, see here! '—righteous and swift.
...

I'm going upstairs to the CEO. The elevator doors glide open, and I step out. Deep, plum-colored carpets. Heavy doors. A receptionist is talking low into the telephone. She looks up, still talking, and her eyes follow me as I pass. I wander down hallways big as a landing strip. The floor is quiet and filled with light. Each room is empty as I walk by.

I reach the CEO's office. The secretary is gone. I push at the steel door, and it slowly swings open like a vault. The CEO sits behind his desk at the far end of the room. As I walk toward him over the thick carpet, I can see that his eyes are flat and milky. The wind whistles quietly at the windows. The CEO stares at the horizon, head tilted to one side, thoughtful. Like a desert king, his body has dried into a question mark, fragile and papery, the skin pulled back from his teeth. His hands rest lightly on the desktop. Through the broken skin, I can see the hollow bones in his wrists—small bones, like a bird's.
...

When they finally called us, we were nothing
if not relieved, even giddy to report upstairs
on a cold day in December, a Friday just before lunch—
the witching hour of the week for layoffs.
...

is the beauty of a minor
dream turned quietly
aside at the end of the day,
the beauty of the small,
...

Whipped like rocks, we're all Egyptians
working for death, for the pure idea
of numbers, tonnage tricked
and heaved up muddy slopes, our own bodies
...

God shows up with a leaf blower,
talking in quiet Spanish
to the lawn crew that manicures
the beds outside our chapel.
...

John Lacher,1928-2010


Heavier than you’d think
...

My finest work, to be honest,
the thousands of slick,
four-color pages and fold-outs
supporting myself, my wife,
...

Keep mainly to themselves, leading
The quiet life down there,
Free from distraction.
...

He takes a breath
And peels the compliant
Skin from the back of his hand
To show us clearly
...