For various movie directors

I come this way
for the ‘S’ bends
Driving alone at
night I feel
like Paul Douglas in a
wordy, moralistic
movie the kind
I loved—still do—
when I was young
these made
adulthood seem so
interestingly full—
of worries,
& heroism:
love, & guilt
& betrayal, unspoken
forgiveness: Paul always
loved her though she was
no good—though she wasn’t
so bad—he was no
great shakes himself the
big palooka
besides, he had cancer,
his partner was out
to blackmail him
the business could go downhill
any moment—she’d given up a lot
to marry him. Paul wore
big coats, over big suits, &
sported a muffler he had
dumb, intelligent eyes. I
page 145 come home on just
one glass of wine, to play
an obscure record, write
a poem—obscure too probably—
write a letter
& maybe call Cath, in Italy—
on her holiday. Soon to return—
to her palooka, deeply worried
today, about Manet,
deeply worried about nothing—
a palooka in 1992 Australia
in a small yellow Mazda
moving carefully through the
‘S’s