“A Weekend Well Affords a Sleep-in”
A weekend well affords a sleep-in, and a look
At what’s not been put to rest, and in the soft
And casual stroll through halls and closets, lofts
And corners of the home, the memories ordered, books
Rearranged, and music for the soul–the sound
Of dishes, cleaning, sweeping rugs, and then,
Of course, the nagging thought that if and when
The hours allow, perhaps a treasure found,
That deliberate search for lost and oft forgotten articles
That must be somewhere in this place.
He conjures histories in dusty, mundane thoughts—erase
The past, perhaps—and in the end to shift the particles
And portions of the present if only to reinvigorate and nurture
What’s behind the doors, beneath the floors, and repossess the furniture.
Monotony abides the inverse to eternity since we last prayed,
And so to arms and legs, and chest, a shallow glimpse into the mirror’s relay
There with all angels and their demons on track,
Mental ferris wheels to feed the ego. Creature comforts and divorce
(Whichever comes to mind) as skin and moisture, open nostrils
In the midst and mist of hostile winds and waters, lesser thrills
Than what you thought you’d find there in the tub.
But then, you’ve done it all, . . . what lamp to rub,
What nerve to prick to wake the dead within
Or titillate the whole without, and feel the skin
Of something close to human and possibly alive.
So much to do at fours and fives
In autumn afternoons or deep in winter’s snows: so creeps the dusk
Of possibles in the binding of the summer’s ledger and maybes in the dust.
“I’ve Been Thinking”
I’ve been thinking way too much these days;
The shock, you see, the awe of threshold’s reached
At sixty-six that tells me there’s so much to see
So little time to find a hook, another book, a snag, a sway
And banner suitable for framing, something like a booth, a stall,
The wherewithal to pass what little I’ve accumulated
To the next in line, the liberated
Mass of teachers staring blankly at the wall
They think they see before them, not at all inclined
To move an inch ahead, or fall behind the hour
Of their deliverance; the not-too-distant tower
Built of babbling and distraction twice toggled and misaligned
By hucksters for bovines, clever workshop shakers, and all divines
Who swear there’s still time to form a proper conga line!
…dedicated to those fortunate enough to have missed the Sunday pot luck; they’ll never miss you as they buffalo to the buffet table hoping that the food and drink are more arresting than the guests…
“Sunday, and So Crowded”
Sunday, and so crowded in the waiting room, no chair
Is empty, nor room to stand.
They come from miles to see this man; hands
Folded, some simile of expectation in the air.
The cows gathered hours before the milking time, no care
To be spoke beneath the vapid light made triplicate by ceiling fans,
Their needs expressed in vacant stares; no questions, no demands.
He’s in, he’s out, no matter, but of course he isn’t there.
It’s Sunday and this man is at home;
He’s left his station on the ceiling,
And standing just inside himself,
Cacophonies all but moan within the heart. Caves
Are empty within his mind and he hears a single tone
Within his breast, the redundant sign of his own breathing.
“The Weekend Mystique”
The weekend mystique, the rush’s rash in weekend treks
From Victoria Square to Rigaud, and then of course the sack–a nap
Or two will do to cast the bones, sift the spirits, pump the sap
From toes to heady regions of the lobes and neck
And coax that Ka from out the closet, the familiar that brought
The body from the cemetery to the métro once again–
Refreshment redux; reinvented–and then
The taxing and taxes, the proper pressures as they ought
To be addressed with reverence, aplomb, with nothing more or less
Than fumes and just a touch of lead; another zygote, another test,
A sudden hush in fast forward. As it were, what one would guess
Should gross at least as many pixels from the guest
Appearance at the office as in the kitchen round the pot; the chat room’s histories
Blush as fingers dance across the laptop revealing candid mysteries.