Read Jimmy's Blues and Other Poems for Free Online Page B

indeed,
    Sephardic,
    and had loved Spain,
    when he had walked
    and gawked,
    there,
    years before he had become
    American.
    Elizabeth now called him
    again.
    And he was afraid,
    again,
    not knowing why,
    and angry at himself
    for not knowing
    why
    he was afraid.
    Coming!
    he called, again,
    and, then, in the bed-room,
    putting on his shorts,
    looking for his shirt,
    he called,
    What is it?
    And Elizabeth came into the
    bed-room,
    looking as nice as she always
    looked to him,
    and looking frightened.
    She said,
    There are some men here
    to see you,
    from the FBI.
    The FBI?
    That’s what they said.
    He laughed,
    as he got into his trousers.
    She helped him with his shirt.
    If that don’t beat all!
    But, he realized, suddenly,
    that Joe and Pam were not talking,
    anymore,
    and Elizabeth, abruptly, left him,
    and he put on his shoes.
    He put on his watch.
    It said: eight-thirty.
    He was to remember that.
    One was standing in the kitchen.
    One was standing in the living-room.
    The one in the kitchen
    stood too close to the children.
    He did not like the way
    this man looked at his children.
    He did not like the way this man
    looked at Elizabeth.
    He did not like the way the man
    in the living room
    looked at his books,
    holding one in his hands
    as though it were reptilian,
    putting it down on the table
    as though the room were a swamp.
    Yet, if he had seen them
    on the train to work,
    in the streets, in a bar,
    he wouldn’t have noticed them at all.
    They looked perfectly ordinary,
    dressed as safely as he was
    dressed.
    Anonymous, and, above all,
    democratic.
    You are?
    This was the one in the kitchen.
    It was not a question.
    It was a statement containing
    contempt.
    He felt the blood hit his temples.
    He put his hands in his pockets,
    trembling.
    He said,
What’s this about?
    But his voice was another man’s
    voice.
    He did not recognize his voice.
    His voice:
    now, he realized that he had never
    heard his voice.
    The one in the living-room
    picked up another book,
    dropped it,
    said,
    We’re asking the questions
.
    Mister
.
    Came into the kitchen
    and patted little Joe on the head.
    Joe jumped up and ran to his
    father,
    who put one trembling arm around him,
    and said,
    I think I have a right to ask
    questions
.
    What are you doing in my house?
    What do you want?
    They flashed badges.
    He said,
    That don’t mean shit
.
    They laughed. Pam began to cry.
    Elizabeth went to her,
    staring at the men.
    Oh yes, it does
,
    the living-room man said,
    And you are in it
.
    The kitchen man laughed.
    He produced a photograph.
    He seemed to take it out of his hat
    Though his hat was on the kitchen table.
    When did you last see this man
,
    Mister?
    He wanted to say,
    I do not know this man
.
    He stared at a photograph of a man
    who had been his teacher, once,
    a very fine man.
    A very fine teacher.
    His name was Stone.
    I have not seen him in some time
,
    he said,
    cold, now, and angry in another way,
    and too relieved to know what this was
    about, frightened
    to be, for the moment, anymore.
    Then, the living-room man said:
    And you signed this?
    And took out an old, rolled-up piece of
    paper,
    like a scroll,
    and thrust it at him.
    He read,
    Genocide is among the American crimes
,
    and we petition this nation to
    atone
.
    He looked at this for a long time.
    He remembered signing it: he did not
    look for his name.
    He ran his hands through his son’s
    abruptly electric hair,
    and stared at the living-room man,
    and the kitchen man,
    and said,
    Yes. I signed it. You know that
.
    Why are you here?
    The kitchen man said,
    Your teacher wrote a book, too, didn’t he?
    He said,
Yes
. Then,
Not a bad book
,
    either
.
    He was beginning to tremble.
    He wanted to laugh.
    He felt his son clasp his thigh.
    The living-room man said,
    Well, he’s in jail, your teacher
.
    He was a faggot Commie spy
.
    The kitchen man said,
    I bet he made out with you
,
    You, with your cute round ass
.
    Yeah. That’s why you signed