Sundays of Satin-Legs Smith by Gwendolyn Brooks

Inamoratas, with an approbation,
Bestowed his title. Blessed his inclination.

He wakes, unwinds, elaborately: a cat
Tawny, reluctant, royal. He is fat
And fine this morning. Definite. Reimbursed.

He waits a moment, he designs his reign,
That no performance may be plain or vain.
Then rises in a clear delirium.

He sheds, with his pajamas, shabby days.
And his desertedness, his intricate fear, the
Postponed resentments and the prim precautions.

Now, at his bath, would you deny him lavender
Or take away the power of his pine?
What smelly substitute, heady as wine,
Would you provide? life must be aromatic.
There must be scent, somehow there must be some.
Would you have flowers in his life? suggest
Asters? a Really Good geranium?
A white carnation? would you prescribe a Show
With the cold lilies, formal chrysanthemum
Magnificence, poinsettias, and emphatic
Red of prize roses? might his happiest
Alternative (you muse) be, after all,
A bit of gentle garden in the best
Of taste and straight tradition? Maybe so.
But you forget, or did you ever know,
His heritage of cabbage and pigtails,
Old intimacy with alleys, garbage pails,
Down in the deep (but always beautiful) South
Where roses blush their blithest (it is said)
And sweet magnolias put Chanel to shame.

No! He has not a flower to his name.
Except a feather one, for his lapel.
Apart from that, if he should think of flowers
It is in terms of dandelions or death.
Ah, there is little hope. You might as well—
Unless you care to set the world a-boil
And do a lot of equalizing things,
Remove a little ermine, say, from kings,
Shake hands with paupers and appoint them men,
For instance—certainly you might as well
Leave him his lotion, lavender and oil.

Let us proceed. Let us inspect, together
With his meticulous and serious love,
The innards of this closet. Which is a vault
Whose glory is not diamonds, not pearls,
Not silver plate with just enough dull shine.
But wonder-suits in yellow and in wine,
Sarcastic green and zebra-striped cobalt.
With shoulder padding that is wide
And cocky and determined as his pride;
Ballooning pants that taper off to ends
Scheduled to choke precisely. Here are hats
Like bright umbrellas; and hysterical ties
Like narrow banners for some gathering war.

People are so in need, in need of help.
People want so much that they do not know.

Below the tinkling trade of little coins
The gold impulse not possible to show
Or spend. Promise piled over and betrayed.

These kneaded limbs receive the kiss of silk.
Then they receive the brave and beautiful
Embrace of some of that equivocal wool.
He looks into his mirror, loves himself—
The neat curve here; the angularity
That is appropriate at just its place;
The technique of a variegated grace.

Here is all his sculpture and his art
And all his architectural design.
Perhaps you would prefer to this a fine
Value of marble, complicated stone.
Would have him think with horror of baroque,
Rococo. You forget and you forget.

He dances down the hotel steps that keep
Remnants of last nights high life and distress.
As spat-out purchased kisses and spilled beer.
He swallows sunshine with a secret yelp.
Passes to coffee and a roll or two.
Has breakfasted. Out. Sounds about him smear,
Become a unit. He hears and does not hear

• Category

  Education

[Leonora Creamer]

What's with the tape on your face?

[hartistry]

 It's sticky on my face

[Rebekah Moraites]

why do you have tape on your face?

[hartistry]

I was tired of looking at my usual face and

I wanted to see if I could make my face

different. Also, I just wanted to be a bit

silly since I usually am serious.

Dave

[hartistry]

Also, this is a tongue in cheek parody

to T.S. Eliot's "Prufrock" poem.

[hartistry]

At Joes Eats

You get your fish or chicken on meat platters.

With coleslaw, macaroni, candied sweets,

Coffee and apple pie. You go out full.

(The end is—isnt it?—all that really matters.) And even and intrepid come The tender boots of night to home.  Her body is like new brown bread

[hartistry]

He loiters. Restaurant vendors

Weep, or out of them rolls a restless glee.

The Lonesome Blues, the Long-lost Blues, I Want A

Big Fat Mama. Down these sore avenues

Comes no Saint-Saëns, no piquant elusive Grieg,

And not Tschaikovskys wayward eloquence

And not the shapely tender drift of Brahms.

But could he love them? Since a man must bring

To music what his mother spanked him for

When he was two: bits of forgotten hate,

[hartistry]

Pictures, too, as usual, are blurred. He sees and does not see the broken windows Hiding their shame with newsprint; little girl With ribbons decking wornness, little boy Wearing the trousers with the decentest patch, To honor Sunday; women on their way From service, temperate holiness arranged Ably on asking faces; men estranged From music and from wonder and from joy But far familiar with the guiding awe Of foodlessness.