Heartache

American Poetry Review, The, May/Jun 1999 by Ashbery, John

Sometimes a dangerous slice-of-life

like stepping off a board-game

into a frantic lagoon

drags the truth from the bathroom, where it has been hiding.

"Do whatever you like to improve the situation,

and-good luck," it added, like a barber adding an extra plop of lather

to a stupefied customer's face. "When they let you out

I'll be waiting for you." It had been that way ever since a girl with braids

teased him about getting too short. Yeah, and I'll bet they have

places for people like you too. Trouble is, I don't know of any.

The years whirled quickly by, an upward spiral

toward that ghastly ascendancy? He didn't know. He cried.

One November the police chief came calling.

He had secretly been collecting all the bright kids

in the universe, popping them into a big bag

which he lugged home with him. No one was too sure what happened

after that. The kids were past caring; they had the run

of the house after all. Was it so much better outside?

Snow lashed the windowpanes as though punishing them

for having the property of being seen through. The little town

grew quieter. No one missed the kids. They had been too bright

for that to happen. Night sprang out of the dense cold

like an infuriated ocelot with her cub that someone had been trying

to steal, or so it pretended. The frightened townspeople sped away.

There was no longer any room on the sidewalk

for anything but the "V's" drawn in pink chalk, the way a child

draws a seagull. Down at the tavern the neon glowed a comforting

red. "All beer on tap," it said, and

"Booths for Ladies."