14 March 2005 | Vol. 5, No. 1

If Chekhov Robbed a Bank

by CHRISTOPHER BURAWA

The goose gun rests against the window

like a sleepy passenger. The flivver idles

at the icebound curb, the cloud stagnant

and unruffled. He gets out, leaving the gun,

opens the back door. He slides the double-

bladed axe off the seat. This, he thinks, is

what happens when you put off business.

Bones equal taxes, how unequivocalable,

not unlike onions sautéed with wandering.

He remembers the seltzer bottle half way

to the door. The doorman in mink whistles

his boyhood warning warble, but the lenders

have gathered into a circle of blue noses.

Chekhov returns, asks the "Keyhole Sniffer" if

he wouldn't mind opening the door for him.

Down the street the baker wonders out loud

if it's too late for him to plant tulips

so that in his old age he can say he did.