METRO LACE

IV.

May 3

Those in cahoots shed souvenirs

piled in bulk, ready to be packed up,

shipped to a new address.  Is she

driving cross-country, taking a swim

in every state?  No one knows,

but we concede that a spade

tattooed where all can see

bespeaks a sly gesture aimed

to subdue the elements

and you

too, dude.

                                    Queasy enough

when you see what becomes of youth,

pilled or not, probed, texted, shot

from a cannon.  Let's all process

close-ups, flaring nostrils, let's all say

we held our breath at natural beauty,

those plantings, harvestings, mountains,

falls, rivers, long hikes up the trail,

and when we returned always found

a country inn or stone cottage, door

ajar, windows unlatched, chimney smoking.

I'm not insisting there was only cinema

and city streets, only cab rides, trains,

and architecture, and buzzing panels

where invited speakers aired opinions

then recoiled in private, or coughed.

Were you ever convicted for minimal fines?

Let's repeat what we've learned so far,

leave a lamp trimmed, a bowl

of chilled water, a folded towel.

                                    Sing, I hear you.

There's a hole inside me, gaping,

aged and waiting.  So clear now

why all that happened had to drop

into lakes of unbroken calm,

had to inspire abuse and contention,

because we've been relinquishing this vision

since birth                    because we've aimed higher

because we sampled the goods and found them

meet                because you are forgetting me

because the imp in the chamber spins

and flattens before and after  because scotch

warms and burns and absinthe quells

because a riot of colors is my mind, dear wife,

and anyone for tea                  because rocky coasts

of Maine, autumn light, fresh apples

                                    because falling,

broken wrists, a locus poenitentiae, nearly

empty road

near the lake,

a staggered soul, a collapse and a joke,

hours stolen from everyday demands,

fresh red peppers roasted in sesame oil.

I'm glad there's time to summarize tastes

and itemize our knowledge, time

to empty the bucket of its grassy water

and lay upon the earth, spine in loam,

all the heaving clouds like breath above.

Recall the speech vouchsafed her.

Speak it, Lucy—aim at the sun.

©Donald Brown 2010/2013