If I could see nothing but the smoke
From the tip of his cigar， I would know everything
About the years before the war.
If his face were halved by shadow I would know
This was a street where an EATS sign trembled
And a Greek served coffee black as a dog's eye.
If I could see nothing but his wrist I would know
About the slot machine and I could reconstruct
The weak chin and ruin of his youth， the summer
My father was a gypsy with oiled hair sleeping
In a Murphy bed and practicing clairvoyance.
I could fill his vast Packard with showgirls
And keep him forever among the difficult buttons
Of the bodice， among the rustling of their names，
Miss Christina， Miss Lorraine.
I could put his money in my pocket
and wearing memory's black fedora
With the condoms hidden in the hatband
The damp cigar between my teeth，
I could become the young man who always got sentimental
About London especially in Las Vegas with its single bridge？-
So ridiculously tender——leaning across the river
To watch the starlight's soft explosions.
If I could trace the two veins that crossed
His temple， I would know what drove him
To this godforsaken place， I would keep him forever
Remote from war——like the come-hither tip of his lit cigar
Or the harvest moon， that gold planet， remote and pure
American.