SEEING OFF A FRIEND

Early April on Broadway, south of Union Square,
a man jumps from the twentieth floor. I
stop him at the tenth. Tell me, I say,
what have you learned in your travels?
We sit and rest awhile. I have only
just asked the question, he says. The answer
will come to me later. He smiles shyly
and continues falling to the fifth floor
where I stop him again. Tell me, I say,
what have you learned in your travels?
He smiles again, being basically cheerful,
but shakes his head. These answers
are slow in approaching, he says,
perhaps it is too soon to tell.
Beneath us
the crowd is clamoring for his arrival.
They shout and clap their hands in unison.
They would sing songs of welcome
if they knew them. They would beat drums.
I shrug and let him continue. He falls,
twisting silently. He nicks a streetlight,
smashing it. He hits the hood of a blue
Chevrolet, smashing it. He bounces thirty feet
and hits a parking meter, smashing it.
He lies there as people run toward him.
Their hands are open like shopping bags.
Their mouths are open like pits in the earth.
All his answers cover their faces.

- Stephen Dobyns

Girl on a Bus

She couldn't be more than four, blond tresses
bouncing as she crouches on her seat beneath the window
before jumping up to press her nose and hands
on tinted glass as if to say, I am here.
Her father smiles indulgently and continues
writing in his planner. On the sidewalk, a woman stares enviously
at a mannequin wearing a wedding dress. In the woman's hands
are bags of shopping, longing to be filled.
The planner holds the little girl's life.
Five: gets chicken pox, retains endearing scar
on chin. Sixteen: dates shiftless musician
against wishes. Remember, bad choices
lead to character. Twenty-two: graduates top at Brown.
Her father scribbles furiously.
Her first novel changes history. Her fiancee
has always loved her. Her teenage daughter
thinks she's the coolest. Her father has written
through two pens when I return 8 hours later to head home.
The woman with the shopping bags hasn't moved.
Beside him rest stacks of calendar pages for his planner
and a brand new receipt. He's bought more time
if he just continues writing and not looking at the girl
springing at the world. Meanwhile, his daughter
continues her peek-a-boo with the oblivious woman
playing peek-a-boo at her own window.
How can I not believe her father is right?
Her novel will change history. She will write
about a girl on a bus looking through the window
at a woman being fitted for a wedding dress
and every father will put down their pens.