All of Us by Raymond Carver Page A

are out there!
    We may even go a little way down the coast, on my boat.
    But nothing dangerous, nothing too serious.
    The idea is simply to enjoy ourselves and not get scared.
    We’ll eat and drink and laugh a lot, on my boat.
    I’ve always wanted to take at least one trip like this,
    with my friends, on my boat. If we want to
    we’ll listen to Schumann on the CBC.
    But if that doesn’t work out, okay,
    we’ll switch to KRAB, The Who, and the Rolling Stones.
    Whatever makes my friends happy! Maybe everyone
    will have their own radio, on my boat. In any case,
    we’re going to have a big time. People are going to have fun,
    and do what they want to do, on my boat.
The Poem I Didn’t Write
    Here is the poem I was going to write
    earlier, but didn’t
    because I heard you stirring.
    I was thinking again
    about that first morning in Zurich.
    How we woke up before sunrise.
    Disoriented for a minute. But going
    out onto the balcony that looked down
    over the river, and the old part of the city.
    And simply standing there, speechless.
    Nude. Watching the sky lighten.
    So thrilled and happy. As if
    we’d been put there
    just at that moment.
Work
    FOR JOHN GARDNER, D. SEPTEMBER 14, 1982
    Love of work. The blood singing
    in that. The fine high rise
    of it into the work. A man says,
    I’m working. Or, I worked today.
    Or, I’m trying to make it work.
    Him working seven days a week.
    And being awakened in the morning
    by his young wife, his head on the typewriter.
    The fullness before work.
    The amazed understanding after.
    Fastening his helmet.
    Climbing onto his motorcycle
    and thinking about home.
    And work. Yes, work. The going
    to what lasts.
In the Year 2020
    Which of us will be left then —
    old, dazed, unclear —
    but willing to talk about our dead friends?
    Talk and talk, like an old faucet leaking.
    So that the young ones,
    respectful, touchingly curious,
    will find themselves stirred
    by the recollections.
    By the very mention of this name
    or that name, and what we did together.
    (As we were respectful, but curious
    and excited, to hear someone tell
    about the illustrious dead ahead of us.)
    Of which of us will they say
    to their friends,
    he knew so and so! He was friends with_____
    and they spent time together.
    He was at that big party.
    Everyone was there. They celebrated
    and danced until dawn. They put their arms
    around each other and danced
    until the sun came up.
    Now they’re all gone.
    Of which of us will it be said —
    he knew them? Shook hands with them
    and embraced them, stayed overnight
    in their warm houses. Loved them!
    Friends, I do love you, it’s true.
    And I hope I’m lucky enough, privileged enough,
    to live on and bear witness.
    Believe me, I’ll say only the most
    glorious things about you and our time here!
    For the survivor there has to be something
    to look forward to. Growing old,
    losing everything and everybody.
The Juggler at Heaven’s Gate
    FOR MICHAEL CIMINO
    Behind the dirty table where Kristofferson is having
    breakfast, there’s a window that looks onto a nineteenth-century
    street in Sweetwater, Wyoming. A juggler
    is at work out there, wearing a top hat and a frock coat,
    a little reed of a fellow keeping three sticks
    in the air. Think about this for a minute.
    This juggler. This amazing act of the mind and hands.
    A man who juggles for a living.
    Everyone in his time has known a star,
    or a gunfighter. Somebody, anyway, who pushes somebody
    around. But a juggler! Blue smoke hangs inside
    this awful café, and over that dirty table where two
    grownup men talk about a woman’s future. And something,
    something about the Cattlemen’s Association.
    But the eye keeps going back to that juggler.
    That tiny spectacle. At this minute, Ella’s plight
    or the fate of the emigrants
    is not nearly so important as this juggler’s exploits.
    How’d
he
get into the act, anyway? What’s his story?
    That’s the story I want to know. Anybody
    can wear a gun and swagger around. Or