Nan, a Fantasizing HusbandI dream of becoming an idle Nan, in whose calendar all days are blank. Don't blame me if I am such a manwho goes to ball games as a major fanand whose job is to draw cash from the bank.I dream of becoming an idle Nan.Scientists, artists, statesmen do what they can, but I would have my good fortune to thank. Don't scold me if I am such a man.Trouble will always come if you have a planto attack front and flank.I dream of becoming an idle Nan –in the morning I'll eat omelet with ham; if it's fine, I will roam the riverbank. Don't pinch me if I am such a man!Time will crush everything into one span. Why strive for money, power, fame, and rank? I dream of becoming an idle Nan. Don't kill me if I am such a man!A Father's BluesAgain I'm back at square one, where every street says "Dead End." I thought my daughter, unborn yet, would show me an outlet.Again I'm back at square oneto face an empty yard where a house once stood.My child was a vision I lost myself in.If only I had unlearned selfish parenthood.Again I'm back at square one, holding a little casket I cannot inter. My child died before she grew a lung. If only I knew where they dumped her.Again I'm back at square one,where a man has to restart alone.Let me unsee my daughter's twinkling pulseso I can search my soul for a milestone.A Mother's BluesI had my baby with me again last night.She curled up at my side,saying, "Mommy, your bed is so nice.It's cold out there,I'm so scared.""Don't be, my child." I patted her silky hair.She told me,"I won't wet your bed, Mommy." I said, "Don't be silly- you're not big enough to pee."I woke to find her tiny coffin against my cheek, still stuffed with her little quilt and mattress. Oh if only I could hold her again inside me.Again I saw my baby this morning. She was on the deck, toddling. Now and then she peeked in through the glass door, prattling.HomeworkUnder his pencil a land is emerging. He says, "I'm making a country."In no time it blooms into colors.A blue bay opens like a horseshoe onthe shoulder of a glacier.Below, a chain of mountains zigzags,greened with rain forests.Farther down he places mines:aluminum, silver, copper, titanium, iron, gold, uranium, tungsten, zinc.Two oil fields beside branching riversare kept apart by a sierra called Mount Funfun.In the south a plain stretchesinto vast fertile land, wherehe crayons farms that yield oranges,potatoes, apples, strawberries,wheat, broccoli, cherries, zucchini,poultry, beef, mutton, cheese.(There's no fisherybecause he hates seafood.)On the same map he draws a chart-railroads crisscross the landscape;highways, pipelines, canalsentwine; sea lanes curveinto the ocean, airportsraise a web of skyways.He imposes five time zones.For a child a country is a place unmarked by missilesand fleets. He doesn't knowhow to run it with the powerto issue visas and secret ordersand to rattle nuclear bombs like slingshots.Her Dreamwas to be free of responsibility,to be born the youngest in her family,pampered by her parents and humoredby big brothers and sisters,and later to marry a man of mild temperwho would worry alone about money,business, household duties, the authorities.But born the oldest child,she had to tend her siblings,cut grass for ducks and geese,gather firewood in the valley,and walk miles to shop in the villages.She'd cook supperif patients delayed her mother.Like many women of her generationshe cannot recall a happy episodein her childhood. Yet she's resolvedto give her children a loving homeso that they won't be bowled overif someone whispers to them "I love you."Status

They are referring to the photo I mailed them last May. In it I wear a cell phone on my belt and lean against my rusty Chevrolet parked before the medical building. Their letter says my brothers both have well-paid jobs in Shanghai now- one is a consultant at a foreign bank and the other manages a soccer team. "They each carry a phone like you but they haven't bought a car yet."

My parents have forgotten that I wear a phoneas a custodian at the hospital…to get the call when a toilet needs cleaning.An AdmonitionAll your sufferings are imaginary,all your losses not worth mentioningif you keep in mind what you used to see-peasants eating husks and tree leaves in the spring,workers feasting their bosses to get a raise,police rounding up the villagers who refuse to relocate,women getting sterilized after their firstborn,newlyweds setting up house in cattle sheds,worshippers arrested and forced to liveon rotted food if they do not repent-by comparison, all your misfortunes are imaginary.Here in America you can speak and shout,though you have to find your voice and the right ears.You can sell your time for honest bread,you can eat leftovers while dreamingof getting rich and strong,you can lament your losses with abandon,if not to an audience, to your children,you can learn to borrow and get usedto living in the shadow of debt…Still, whatever grieves you has happenedto others, to those from Ireland,Africa, Italy, Scandinavia, the Caribbean.Your hardship is just commonplace,a fortune many are dying to seize.Immigrant DreamsShe too sells her hours in America.Her dream has evolved into a houseon two acres of land with a pool.She once dreamed of becoming a divaor movie star or a painterwho specialized in fish and bamboo.But she gave up art schooland came here to expand her selfhood.At least that's what she planned to do.He didn't know that at heartshe was a mother and wife,a woman who would love burgers and fries.Indeed, dollars can equalize most lives.If only he were twenty againor could stop patching his dreamwith diffident feet and rhymes.