the quake (3)

Fluorescent tubes cast their weary light

on the emergency room’s green sick walls.

The coughs and whispers faded to snores,

now that the predawn excitement had withdrawn.

A gray-haired nurse called, Nalbandian?

Henry waved a hand, that’s me.

Well c’mon, get over here,

let’s have a look at you, young man.

Her penlight probed his eyes,

look left, look right, follow my fingers,

you seem alright. Six stitches

and a dab of mercurochrome

‘s all we need to fix you up tonight.

At four thirty seven in the morning,

it was seventy-five degrees, cool for a mid-July night .

The cool would be gone in a few hours though,

when the mercury climbed past a hundred again.

Henry shook out a crooked Lucky Strike from a dented pack,

lit it up with a Zippo with a dragon engraved on the front,

and Inchon, Korea, 1951 on the back. 

They always tasted best in cool morning air.

A flock of cowbirds chorusing in a modesto ash,

went quiet as he crossed the empty street

and leaned against the door of his

fenderless tracknose ‘34 coupe.

Snuffed the butt, climbed in, turned the key.

The radio was playing a Bakersfield hit:

Bud Hobbs & his Trail Herders singing

candy kisses wrapped in paper…

  4:52 a.m. July 21, 1952.  Magnitude 7.3

With a jolt and a rumble, the Ford bucks like a bronco,

was he rear-ended by some phantom truck?

nothing there in the rear view mirror, so what the fuck?

The street ripples like a swarm of rats fighting under a blanket.

Falling bricks bounce off the pavement and the world roars

like a wagonload of taters on a wooden bridge.

A black exposion of cowbirds streams from the ash trees,

the needle on Bud Hobbs sad ballad jumps and skips

candy kisses, candy kisses, kisses, kisses,

mean more, mean more, to you , to you , than me

The bandaged and damaged, patients and staff,

gowned or in greens, limping or running,

pour down the stairs of the hospital,

spill out the doors into the street,

looking skyward where the stars

have yet to dim and a sliver of moon

still hangs in the west,

the rational ones doing their best

to calm and to comfort the rest.

Is this heaven’s revenge?

A disheveled doctor, with a stethoscope

dangling forgotten in his hand,

stares at one of his patients hustling out the door,

the baker’s cardiac wife gripping the arms

of a wheelchair as her flour-dusted husband

gives her a ride down the cracked stairs.

Broken bricks and window glass

dot the street and the grass,

ghostly shards glittering in the settling dust.

Ruthie Brown, still clutching her mop,

doesn’t see Augustus Smith

sneaking up ten paces behind her,

a short length of pipe in his hand.

Hey miss! look out behind you! run! get in the car!

She splashes through a puddle flooding the street,

jumps in through the open driver’s side door,

slides over the worn leather to the passenger side.

Henry grabs his old bulletless six shooter

stashed under the seat, points it at Gus.

Smith skids to a stop in the street.

Okay shithead, you win this morning.

but this ain’t the end of our bizness,

cuz I’m gonna be lookin’ for you.

that little jungle bitch too.

better fuck her while you got the chance,

‘fore I put this lil pal of mine up her snatch.

I’ll keep that in mind, I got a pal o’ my own.

try anything and I’ll shoot your dick off.

Gus steps back, holds the pipe in front of his crotch

rubbing it like an erection.

Yer gonna need it chief. When I’m done with her,

I’m gonna use this to piss on your grave.

Turns his back to show he ain’t scar’t,

joins the rest of his crew watching the scene

from the hospital lawn.

Let’s get out of here, miss.......

what’s your name anyway?

Ruthie. Ruthie Brown.

Are you really named Bandyman?

No. I’m Henry. Henry Nalbandian.

I’m real pleased to meet you, Mr Henry.

Likewise I’m sure, Miss Brown.