In the Loupe

At 2:01 on Friday morning, the work was over;
I’d snuck the necklace’s clasp through the loophole I’d fashioned.
My indelicate fingers had toiled to expand what had been
Just a nasty knot, and there, after forever, it was:
The fool’s gold chain with its tiger’s eye gem, a chintzy gift shop purchase,
In its uncoiled fullness, and I wanted to scream.
But let’s give everyone their sleep.
But my fingers buzzed, and I thought of my mother’s father,
Who’d untangle beads and polish baubles on Nassau Street
Free of charge to any poor soul seeking the gentle
Work of two hands, a jeweler’s loupe, and nothing more to prove
Than that there’s more to life than your five kids. There’s the
Work to feed them the bread and cheese.
There’s his brother, there in the corner, his junior,
Bespectacled and tomato-faced, counting dollars, as
The firstborn takes the silver and sapphire into his
Palms, like alms, to assess the quality, cut, clarity, brilliance.
But when I was in my loop, when I fussed and sweated
Over that overpriced piece of metrosexual trifle
In my buddy’s parents’ guestroom, I was just
Praying for the strength to do something.
Looking upward, in mock reverence (to who, Ceiling-God?),
Straining to remember what it was like to genuflect: Just a fan.
As if my gesture will mean something to some omnipotent force,
As if I will prostrate myself for some cause,
And in exchange get a glimpse of my future.
My children and their middle names.
Each second I live on I do the work of information.
On the eve of a wedding,
In a Mainline Protestant estate,
In a strange queen bed,
The mosquitoes outside doing their thing,
Just me and the eye of the tiger.
And having thought this all through,
I placed it with two hands on the night table,
I laid my head down,
and ignoring the angels,
that was that.