The Apartment

My grandmother used to say
When someone or other die
That they had “gone to Florida.”
We believed her, and years later might inquire
After the So-and-sos and their bridge game
Only to discover they were long gone.

In the dark New York apartment
When I was three, my father coughed
Till he was sent to cure bronchitis
To Palm Beach, and sent me
Two postcards which in mind’s eye I can see
One—pink flamingoes, the other—
Characteristic clustered shape of pelicans.

Today, I try to understand the world
From this screened porch—
Landscape that lies low as my childhood,
The Cape, the Jersey Meadowlands,
And holds the same three colors:
sand
sky
scrub green
Here, clouds pass above long gangly pines
Ants dig pits by the front steps
And I don’t dream of other places.

Whoever lived here before me
Left behind
Five I-Ching coins, silver set in gold,
But no Book of Change.
And an indigo kimono hung on a nail
Surely by mistake
I’m tempted to try it on
But don’t, a superstition
From a fairy tale as if a poisoned dress,
Invisibility cloak.

I want to stay visible to myself.
It’s dangerous to sleep
Night after night
In a bed slept in by strangers.
I opened every door
Aired out the stale smell of dreams.
A button the floor,
A mop, a broom, a rancid sponge,
Pinecones dropped on the doorstep
As if by UPS, or the wind,

And a string of colored Xmas lights,
Something at dusk
To decorate
A solitude.