Read Online Letter from Brooklyn by Jacob Scheier - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jacob Scheier
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Julie and I found it
on a map of the NY public library on 42nd St.
The spelling would vary. Nipolukovich
is as good as any. Julie thinks it was near
the Prut river and the city of Chernoff.
This is oral history. Everybody is gone.
Love Michael.
BREAKFAST AT TIFFANYâS
Iâve often wanted to be kept by a patron of the arts,
to look out my window and see you below
playing âMoon Riverâ on guitar.
Sounds like my kind of life, for a while. I like not knowing
how things will turn out. Of course, I always entertain
the idea of changing you, just a little,
into the kind of woman without furniture,
someone whoâd get her Givenchy sandals soaked,
follow me out of a taxi and onto a rainy movie set.
Maybe you were that kind of person, all along â
just waiting for me to deliver the perfect line. Thatâs what I like
about movies. The words always come at the proper time
and theyâre the right words . . . And cats are found. I guess
I can revise a few autumn evenings in my imagination,
make the leaves and your dress a little yellower.
Though I wouldnât dream of changing your iris.
And I am a little blonder
(and taller and wider) when I tell you
people do fall in love
,
people do belong to each other
,
because thatâs the only chance anybodyâs got
.
Though of course I donât say that exactly.
Just something like it â with the same passion, but my own.
I donât know what you do then.
Even in my imagination itâs hard to imagine
you ever really leaving that taxi. Itâs hard to imagine
it is ever not too late
or people change that quickly
in that way. And, sure, people fall in love,
all too often it seems, but even I want to slap Fred,
or whatever his name is,
when he talks about real happiness.
It just doesnât work that way. I mean, after the credits roll
someone has to speak, apologize, really talk about the weather â
whatever it takes not to end up back in that cab,
failing to say the right words, or worse,
saying them, and that not changing a damn thing.
MY ONLY LOVE POEM
We met before as children, at the ferry dock. Our parents
werenât paying attention to us, and then noticed
we had strayed and were holding each otherâs mittens â
innocent enough, but still they thought it better
to gently pull us apart. I used to believe all kinds of things then,
like people could explode from eating too many blueberries,
but not that they could fall in love. I knew love
was the forever thing my mother spoke of
and so there were neither fallings in or out.
Love was the weather inside a house.
I didnât think of you very often after we left the dock
and maybe thatâs because it never happened.
The first time we met was near
a train station. About a half mile from the tracks
we could hear the train beginning to pull away
and pictured steam rising even though we knew
they had stopped making trains that way years earlier.
You were chewing gum outside a gas station
and I was holding a raspberry slushy
much too large for my hands. We were barely
teenagers. You didnât blow bubbles, because it wasnât
that type of gum. You just chewed and looked
at where the train would be if it were close enough to see.
I stood as though I were waiting for someone
but I just wanted to look at you. I didnât know what to say,
so I told you
I liked chewing gum more than the bubble kind
because I didnât know how to blow bubbles.
That was my line, I guess. You said, and this killed me,
Itâs easy
,
I could show you sometime
. That was the first time
I remember someone saying something that was not about
what they actually said. Later I would come to believe,
except when talking about money,
every adult conversation is pretty much about sex and death
regardless of the supposed subject. You werenât talking about sex then,
not really. And you certainly werenât talking about
on a map of the NY public library on 42nd St.
The spelling would vary. Nipolukovich
is as good as any. Julie thinks it was near
the Prut river and the city of Chernoff.
This is oral history. Everybody is gone.
Love Michael.
BREAKFAST AT TIFFANYâS
Iâve often wanted to be kept by a patron of the arts,
to look out my window and see you below
playing âMoon Riverâ on guitar.
Sounds like my kind of life, for a while. I like not knowing
how things will turn out. Of course, I always entertain
the idea of changing you, just a little,
into the kind of woman without furniture,
someone whoâd get her Givenchy sandals soaked,
follow me out of a taxi and onto a rainy movie set.
Maybe you were that kind of person, all along â
just waiting for me to deliver the perfect line. Thatâs what I like
about movies. The words always come at the proper time
and theyâre the right words . . . And cats are found. I guess
I can revise a few autumn evenings in my imagination,
make the leaves and your dress a little yellower.
Though I wouldnât dream of changing your iris.
And I am a little blonder
(and taller and wider) when I tell you
people do fall in love
,
people do belong to each other
,
because thatâs the only chance anybodyâs got
.
Though of course I donât say that exactly.
Just something like it â with the same passion, but my own.
I donât know what you do then.
Even in my imagination itâs hard to imagine
you ever really leaving that taxi. Itâs hard to imagine
it is ever not too late
or people change that quickly
in that way. And, sure, people fall in love,
all too often it seems, but even I want to slap Fred,
or whatever his name is,
when he talks about real happiness.
It just doesnât work that way. I mean, after the credits roll
someone has to speak, apologize, really talk about the weather â
whatever it takes not to end up back in that cab,
failing to say the right words, or worse,
saying them, and that not changing a damn thing.
MY ONLY LOVE POEM
We met before as children, at the ferry dock. Our parents
werenât paying attention to us, and then noticed
we had strayed and were holding each otherâs mittens â
innocent enough, but still they thought it better
to gently pull us apart. I used to believe all kinds of things then,
like people could explode from eating too many blueberries,
but not that they could fall in love. I knew love
was the forever thing my mother spoke of
and so there were neither fallings in or out.
Love was the weather inside a house.
I didnât think of you very often after we left the dock
and maybe thatâs because it never happened.
The first time we met was near
a train station. About a half mile from the tracks
we could hear the train beginning to pull away
and pictured steam rising even though we knew
they had stopped making trains that way years earlier.
You were chewing gum outside a gas station
and I was holding a raspberry slushy
much too large for my hands. We were barely
teenagers. You didnât blow bubbles, because it wasnât
that type of gum. You just chewed and looked
at where the train would be if it were close enough to see.
I stood as though I were waiting for someone
but I just wanted to look at you. I didnât know what to say,
so I told you
I liked chewing gum more than the bubble kind
because I didnât know how to blow bubbles.
That was my line, I guess. You said, and this killed me,
Itâs easy
,
I could show you sometime
. That was the first time
I remember someone saying something that was not about
what they actually said. Later I would come to believe,
except when talking about money,
every adult conversation is pretty much about sex and death
regardless of the supposed subject. You werenât talking about sex then,
not really. And you certainly werenât talking about
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