Robinson at cards at the Algonquin; a thin <br />Blue light comes down once more outside the blinds. <br />Gray men in overcoats are ghosts blown past the door. <br />The taxis streak the avenues with yellow, orange, and red. <br />This is Grand Central, Mr. Robinson. <br /> <br /> <br />Robinson on a roof above the Heights; the boats <br />Mourn like the lost. Water is slate, far down. <br />Through sounds of ice cubes dropped in glass, an osteopath, <br />Dressed for the links, describes an old Intourist tour. <br />—Here’s where old Gibbons jumped from, Robinson. <br /> <br /> <br />Robinson walking in the Park, admiring the elephant. <br />Robinson buying the Tribune, Robinson buying the Times. Robinson <br />Saying, “Hello. Yes, this is Robinson. Sunday <br />At five? I’d love to. Pretty well. And you?” <br />Robinson alone at Longchamps, staring at the wall. <br /> <br /> <br />Robinson afraid, drunk, sobbing Robinson <br />In bed with a Mrs. Morse. Robinson at home; <br />Decisions: Toynbee or luminol? Where the sun <br />Shines, Robinson in flowered trunks, eyes toward <br />The breakers. Where the night ends, Robinson in East Side bars. <br /> <br /> <br />Robinson in Glen plaid jacket, Scotch-grain shoes, <br />Black four-in-hand and oxford button-down, <br />The jeweled and silent watch that winds itself, the brief- <br />Case, covert topcoat, clothes for spring, all covering <br />His sad and usual heart, dry as a winter leaf.<br /><br />Weldon Kees<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/aspects-of-robinson/
