Alcohol: Raymond Carver

That painting next to the brocaded drapery
is a Delacroix. This is called a divan
not a davenport; this item is a settee.
Notice the ornate legs.
Put on your tarboosh. Smell the burnt cork
under your eyes. Adjust your tunic, so.
Now the red cummerbund and Paris; April, 1934.
A black Citroen waits at the curb.
The street lamps are lit.
Give the driver the address, but tell him
not to hurry, that you have all night.
When you get there, drink, make love,
do the shimmy and the beguine.
And when the sun comes up over the Quarter
next morning and that pretty woman
you've had and had all night
now wants to go home with you,
be tender with her, don't do anything
you'll be sorry for later. Bring her home
with you in the Citroen, let her sleep
in a proper bed. Let her
fall in love with you and you
with her and then...something: alcohol,
a problem with alcohol, always alcohol-
what you've really done
and to someone else, the one
you meant to love from the start.

*

It's afternoon, August, sun striking
the hood of a dusty Ford
parked on your driveway in San Jose.
In the front seat a woman
who is covering her eyes and listening
to an old song on the radio.
You stand in the doorway and watch.
You hear the song. And it is long ago.
You look for it with the sun in your face.
But you don't remember.
You honestly don't remember.

Jean's TV (Raymond Carver)

My life is on an even keel these

these days. Though who’s to say

it’ll never waver again?

This morning I recalled

a girlfriend I had just after

my marriage broke up.

A sweet girl named Jaen.

In the beginning, she had no idea

How bad things were. It took

a while. But she loved me

a bunch anyway, she said.

*

And I know that’s true.

She let me stay at her place

where I conducted

the shabby business of my life

over her phone.  She bought

my booze, but told me

I wasn’t a drunk

like those others said.

Signed checks for me

and left them on her pillow

when she went off t work.

Gave me Pandleton jacket

that Christmas, one I still wear.

For my part, I taught her to drink.

And how to fall asleep

with her clothes on.

How to wake up

weeping in the middle of the night.

When I left, she paid two months’

rent for me. And gave me

her black and white TV.

We talked on the phone once,

months later. She was drunk.

And, sure, I was drunk too.

The last thing she said to me was,

Will I ever see my TV again?

I looked around the room

as if the TV might suddenly

appear in its place

on the kitchen chair. Or else

come out of a cupboard

and declare itself. But that TV

had gone down the road

weeks before. The TV Jean gave me.

*

I didn’t tell her that.

I lied, of course. Soon, I said,

very soon now.

And put down the phone

after, or before, she hung up.

But those sleep-sounding words

of mine making me feel

I’d come to the end of s story.

And now, this one last falsehood

behind me.

                                I could rest.