Money I’ve made lots of different ways:
back-to-back shifts at the Cumberland Farms,
downing burritos out of the microwave,
late-night entertainment being a wall
of glossy mags behind the register
in racks below the cigarettes and scratchers—
all that honey-colored flesh air-brushed to perfection,
pristine among the milk crates and the soot.
Or: in the gleaming dayrooms of the nursing home,
where I would mop up urine underneath
the wheelchairs of the jittering demented,
who were oblivious, it seemed to me,
to the television they were pointed at.
Lunch hours in the trailer in the lot,
with this sweet misfit kid—my boss—and his
boss, discussing daily what they’d do
if they won the Lottery: retire to Boca.
Buy a Caddy. No, a Lexus.
+++++++So, one day,
out by the nurses’ station, there’s these two
patients side-by-side in wheelchairs,
waiting for the nurse to take them back
to their rooms, or maybe down to therapy,
when this old guy, Edward was his name—
Edward, he was famous for this shit.
Edward’s sitting there next to this lady,
Ethel, I think her name was. Can’t remember.
At any rate, so I’ll just call her Ethel
for the purpose of the story, or this part
of it, the point of which I want come to
now, and that is this: Ethel, right?
Ethel’s got this great enormous smile
on her face, like Thomas Merton or the Buddha.
It’s like her gums stretch from her forehead to her chin,
all molars and gold fillings, and her head
is swaying back and forth in fits, like nodding,
because Edward (you gotta love this guy)
has got his hand way up under her skirt.
And though she only half knows that he’s there
she’s loving it, just loving it. Old Ethel.
Until the nurses come and separate
the two, and send him packing, full of scolds,
with Edward donkey-laughing, very pleased,
the bad boy of the dayroom and God bless him.
He wasn’t the only one;
all the nuts were there: the guy who yelled
“Ay,” but long and loud, like Aaaaayyyyyyyyyy.
Aaaaaaaayyyyyy. Aaaaaaayyyyyyyyy.
All day we’d hear him, from the parking lot.
Or the dude with elephantiasis they called Plato,
or the woman turned a hundred who would ask,
“Are you my mother? Are you my mother?”

+++++++And occasionally a bed
would just go empty, overnight, like that.
And one of the regular crew was gone—
to the hospital—and just as often as not
that would be it; they wouldn’t come back.
Their photos would come down, the woolen throw
would disappear, the tchotchkes, crosses, slippers,
packed up by a nurse, or family.
Thrown away, mostly. It’s amazing how
most of the stuff we live with, cherish, hoard
is so utterly worthless when we’re gone,
turned instantly to trash.
+++++++Another job
I had, not regularly, just once or twice,
was clean up after people who had died.
The first time was somewhere out on Long Island.
I was just a year or two out of college,
cold calling for cosmetics companies
in a high-rise on the East Side, six to ten.
So I was glad to get the cash and all the books
I could carry: the guy was a professor,
or a rabbi—Schopenhauer, Aristotle’s
Ethics. I still have them somewhere here.

But the time I’m really talking about was when
I stole a gold watch from a dying man.
Right?
+++++++His apartment was . . . well, unbelievable.
Peering from the hallway door, it looked
like the inside of a trash compactor.
I was shown in by a man I’d never met.
He knew the man whose place it was: a neighbor.
We’ll say this neighbor’s name is Mr. V.
His friend was sick, said V., a nursing home.
He wasn’t coming back to this apartment,
not dead, you see, but never coming back.
My job was to sort out all of the trash,
which was everywhere, on every surface,
like the air itself had sprouted clods of mold,
smelly tumors. Everywhere. More trash.
Clogging up the closets, in the kitchen,
bathroom cabinets, dresser, sofa, sink.
Mostly, it was papers, tiny papers,
little tiny freakin’ bits of paper.
He never threw away a single shred.
ATM receipts and old prescriptions—
brown-paper grocery bags stuffed full of them.
And I sat there for hours cramming armloads
of this crap into giant Hefty bags,
big ones, like the ones you use for lawns.
I went through every shoebox, every carton,
sorting every piece before I chucked it.
Why? Because I had to sort them all.
Because every now and then I’d find a photo
or a postcard or a letter to this guy,
who had been sick six years, the neighbor said.
So that’s why so much stuff: the piles of garbage,
the takeout bags from food he’d had delivered.
Tucked in with all this junk was this guy’s life:
photos of him getting off a plane
in the bright Israeli sunshine, with his suit
and dark glasses, his thin tie and the shadow
of his fedora, his smile at being home.
Postcards from someone he loved in Florida.
He ran a successful business, apparently,
jewelry and importing, said Mr. V.
In the closet was a collection of wrist watches,
dozens of them, boxes of old watches,
in every style, for men and women, modern
and antique, both.
+++++++The one I took was gold,
from the closet where I’d been lying on my belly
for nearly half an hour, excavating
bags of stockpiled clothing. On the floor,
I found these vintage watches with no straps,
and when I knew that old V. wasn’t watching,
I stuck two in my pocket. (Two I took,
I remember that now.)
+++++++As I was leaving,
the neighbor says to me, “You’re a good boy.
Take a watch. Go on and pick one out.”
I say, “No, I don’t usually wear a watch.
No, really, thanks. I really couldn’t use one.”
The air outside was cold, near Christmastime,
like tonight. And I walked north on Upper Broadway,
to a jewelry store and stopped and bought a band.

What was that, like fifteen years ago?
I’ve only got the one now.
It doesn’t keep good time, and I can’t afford
to have it cleaned. I’ve worn it only once
or twice. To make an impression. So I keep it
in a box inside my closet, and though I haven’t
had it out in years I know it’s there.
Why did I take? That’s the question. Was it
because I deserved it, because I wanted it?
Because life sucked and anyway this guy
probably didn’t need it anymore?
What were they going to do, sell it,
and use the money for the nursing home?
I thought a lot about that, afterwards.
Did he need the money to keep him in that place?
I doubt it, you know. Medicaid, Medicare,
whatever the fuck.
+++++++It kind of haunts me though,
a little, if you want to know. You know?
I can’t ever bring myself to throw it out.
Whenever something bad happens to me,
I think of that watch. Like when you died
so young that way. I know I made it worse—
not being around enough, keeping away
as much as I could till it was too late,
and you’d gone.
+++++++So, what’s the secret of the curse?
A man was dying, and I took his watch.
It was his, and then it wasn’t; it was trash.
And now that it is mine, I keep it safe,
until it’s time for someone else to clean out
my closet, and, whoever’s job it is,
he makes off with it or he passes it on
or most likely of all
just drops it into a bag and throws it out.

from TriQuarterly 135/136