Swing and sway with Sammy Kaye
Everyone at Lake Kearney had a nickname:
there was a Bumstead, a Tonto, a Tex,
and, from the slogan of a popular orchestra,
two sisters, Swing and Sway.
Swing jitterbugged, hopping around
on the dance floor, working up a sweat.
Sway was beautiful. My heart went out to her
when she lifted her heavy rack of dishes
and passed through the swinging door.
She was engaged, to an enlisted man
who was stationed at Fort Dix.
He came once or twice on weekends
to see her. I tried talking to him,
but he didn’t answer ... out of stupidity
or dislike, I could not tell which.
In real life he was a furniture salesman.
This was the hero on whom she had chosen
to bestow her affections.
I told her of my ambition:
to write novels conveying the excitement
of life ... the main building lit up
like a liner on Saturday night;
the sound of the band ... clarinet,
saxophone, snare drum, piano.
He who would know your heart (America)
must seek it in your songs.
And the contents of your purse ...
among Kleenex, aspirin,
chewing gum wrappers, combs, et cetera.
“Don’t stop,” she said, “I’m listening.
Here it is!” flourishing her lighter.
*
In the afternoon when the dishes were washed
and tables wiped, we rowed out on the lake.
I read aloud ... The Duino Elegies,
while she reclined, one shapely knee up,
trailing a hand in the water.
She had chestnut-colored hair.
Her eyes were changing like the surface
with ripples and the shadows of clouds.
“Beauty,” I read to her, “is nothing
but beginning of Terror we’re still just able to bear.”
*
She came from Jersey, the industrial wasteland
behind which Manhattan suddenly rises.
I could visualize the street where she lived,
and see her muffled against the cold,
in galoshes, trudging to school.
Running about in tennis shoes
all through the summer ...
I could hear the porch swing squeak
and see into the parlor.
It was divided by a curtain or screen ...
“That’s it,” she said, “all but the screen.
There isn’t any.”
When she or her sister had a boyfriend
their mother used to stay in the parlor,
pretending to sew, and keeping an eye on them
like Fate.
At night she would lie awake
looking at the sky, spangled over.
Her thoughts were as deep and wide as the sky.
As time went by she had a feeling
of missing out ... that everything
was happening somewhere else.
Some of the kids she grew up with
went crazy ... like a car turning over and over.
One of her friends had been beaten
by the police. Some vital fluid
seemed to have gone out of him.
His arms and legs shook. Busted springs.
*
She said, “When you’re a famous novelist
will you write about me?”
I promised ... and tried to keep my promise.
Recently, looking for a toolbox,
I came upon some typewritten pages,
all about her. There she is
in a canoe ... a gust of wind
rustling the leaves along the shore.
Playing tennis, running up and down the baseline.
Down by the boathouse, listening to the orchestra
playing “Sleepy Lagoon.”
Then the trouble begins. I can never think of anything
to make the characters do.
We are still sitting in the moonlight
while she finishes her cigarette.
Two people go by, talking in low voices.
A car door slams. Driving off ...
“I suppose we ought to go,”
I say.
And she says, “Not yet.”
