Somewhere in Chelsea, early summer; <br />And, walking in the twilight toward the docks, <br />I thought I made out Robinson ahead of me. <br /> <br /> <br />From an uncurtained second-story room, a radio <br />Was playing There’s a Small Hotel; a kite <br />Twisted above dark rooftops and slow drifting birds. <br />We were alone there, he and I, <br />Inhabiting the empty street. <br /> <br /> <br />Under a sign for Natural Bloom Cigars, <br />While lights clicked softly in the dusk from red to green, <br />He stopped and gazed into a window <br />Where a plaster Venus, modeling a truss, <br />Looked out at Eastbound traffic. (But Robinson, <br />I knew, was out of town: he summers at a place in Maine, <br />Sometimes on Fire Island, sometimes the Cape, <br />Leaves town in June and comes back after Labor Day.) <br />And yet, I almost called out, “Robinson!” <br /> <br /> <br />There was no chance. Just as I passed, <br />Turning my head to search his face, <br />His own head turned with mine <br />And fixed me with dilated, terrifying eyes <br />That stopped my blood. His voice <br />Came at me like an echo in the dark. <br /> <br /> <br />“I thought I saw the whirlpool opening. <br />Kicked all night at a bolted door. <br />You must have followed me from Astor Place. <br />An empty paper floats down at the last. <br />And then a day as huge as yesterday in pairs <br />Unrolled its horror on my face <br />Until it blocked—” Running in sweat <br />To reach the docks, I turned back <br />For a second glance. I had no certainty, <br />There in the dark, that it was Robinson <br />Or someone else. <br />The block was bare. The Venus, <br />Bathed in blue fluorescent light, <br />Stared toward the river. As I hurried West, <br /> <br /> <br />The lights across the bay were coming on. <br />The boats moved silently and the low whistles blew.<br /><br />Weldon Kees<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/relating-to-robinson/
