Stephen Dobyns

Missed Chances

In the city of missed chances, the streetlights
always flicker, the second hand clothing shops
stay open all night and used furniture stores
employ famous greeters. This is where you
are sent after that moment of hesitation.
you were too slow to act, too afraid to jump
too shy or uncertain to speak up. Do you recall
the moment? Your finger was raised, your mouth
open, and then, strangely, silence. Now you walk
past men and women wrapped in the memory
of the speeches they should have uttered--
Over my dead body. Sure, I'd be happy with
ten thousand. If you walk out, don't come back--
past dogs practicing faster bites, cowboys
with faster draws, where even the roach
knows that next time he'll jump to the left.
You were simply going to say, Don't go, or words
to that effect--Don't go, don't leave, don't walk
out of my life. Nothing fancy. Nothing to stutter
about. Now you're shouting it every ten seconds.
In the city of missed chances, it is always just past
sunset and the freeways are jammed with people
driving to homes they regret ever choosing
where wives or helpmates have burned the dinner,
where the tv's blown a fuse and even the dog
tied to a post in the backyard, feels confused,
uncertain, and makes tenataive barks at the moon.
How easy to say it--Don't go, don't leave, don't
disappear. Now you've said it a million times.
You even stroll over to the Never-Too-Late
Tattoo Parlour and have it burned into the back
of your hand, right after the guy who had
Don't shoot, Madge, printed big on his forehead.
Then you go down to the park, where you discover
a crowd of losers, your partners in hesitation,
standing nose to nose with the bronze statues
repeating the phrases engraved on their hearts--
Let me kiss you. Don't hit me. I love you--
while the moon pretends to take it all in.
Let's get this straight once and for all:
is that a face up there or is it a rabbit, and if
it's a face, then why does it hold itself back,
why doesn't it take control and say, Who made
this mess,who's responsible? But this is no time
for rebellion,you must line up with the others,
then really start to holler, Don't go, don't go--
like a hammer sinking chains into concrete
like doors slamming and locking one after another
like a heart beats when it's scared half to death.

(Good call bnw. See also: 'Pallbearers Envying the One Who Rides'.)

I gave my dad my collected Dobyns book cuz he is a fan of S.D.'s Charlie Bradshaw mystery series. I just got through reading Eating Naked his short story collection. It's great! pick it up if you see it. And The Wrestler's Cruel Study too if you haven't read it. He is definitely my fave poet/mystery fiction/pomo fiction/horror fiction/short story writer.

Dobyns should be mentioned on the "Write Much?" thread. My favorite poem of his is How To Like It; also Tomatoes. I liked Eating Naked (the story; thanks scott). Here's my top five: The Two Deaths of Senora Puchini (Chilean coup novel), Cemetary Nights (poetry), A Boat Off The Coast (pot smuggling novel), Saratoga Pentameter (Charlie Bradshaw's romp through Yadoo masquerading as a poet whose poems consist of tacked-together titles of Rolling Stones' songs) and Heat Death (poems) which includes this favorite from the seven deadly sins section (I think this is the title; what else could it be...):

Pride

I write this;
you read this

that Tomatoes poem is quite awesome, yes. His novel "The Wrestler's Cruel Study" is also worth looking into as Scott notes.

Ha, he does indeed belong on that thread! And if anyone has any other candidates, feel free to chime in:

Um, Write Much?

I was a bit disappointed by The Church Of Dead Girls. (Great title though!)

His Boy in the Water novel had a great villian. I'll have to check out Wrester. Here's Tomotoes

http://www.contemporarypoetry.com/dialect/poetry/dobynstomatoes.html

thanks..! =)