The Player Piano

The Lost World (1965)

I ate pancakes one night in a Pancake HouseRun by a lady my age. She was gay.When I told her that I came from PasadenaShe laughed and said, “I lived in PasadenaWhen Fatty Arbuckle drove the El Molino bus.”

I felt that I had met someone from home.No, not Pasadena, Fatty Arbuckle.Who’s that? Oh, something that we had in commonLike — like — the false armistice. Piano rolls.She told me her house was the first Pancake House

East of the Mississippi, and I showed herA picture of my grandson. Going home —Home to the hotel — I began to hum,“Smile a while, I bid you sad adieu,When the clouds roll back I’ll come to you.”

Let’s brush our hair before we go to bed,I say to the old friend who lives in my mirror.I remember how I’d brush my mother’s hairBefore she bobbed it. How long has it beenSince I hit my funnybone? had a scab on my knee?

Here are Mother and Father in a photograph,Father’s holding me… They both look so young.I’m so much older than they are. Look at them,Two babies with their baby. I don’t blame you,You weren’t old enough to know any better;

If I could I’d go back, sit down by you both,And sign our true armistice: you weren’t to blame.I shut my eyes and there’s our living room.The piano’s playing something by Chopin,And Mother and Father and their little girl

Listen. Look, the keys go down by themselves!I go over, hold my hands out, play I play —If only, somehow, I had learned to live!The three of us sit watching, as my waltzPlays itself out a half-inch from my fingers.

New Poems. The Lost World (1965)