METRO LACE

V.

May 14

In time we returned

to the house of words

and chose a wall,

each to his own.

“Why do it if it

can be done?” one asked.

Because it's fun

another replied.

All this bother for the sake

of a stone bench

and some trees

agitated on the green.

Not as pokey as molasses

but commentary, as

ever, remains superfluous

aired on other channels

like other victimless

crimes against the state

of being left out

in the cold

hard light of day

where none come but

friends to this ground

a ball player maybe.

These gems are cheap

at the price, cut-throat

as that may be, steady

for now but variable

later.  O build me a home

sweet cakes, able to last

generations unimagined

before, like fungoid growths

distributing increase

in all directions.  Some

say we copied this book

from earlier texts, loose

pages inked by monks

in the year of the flood or

just after.  Rebuke them

at your leisure, grant

what license you like.

Such barren paths abuse

our proud lineage, striped

or spotted as it is.

When the principal actor

quits the scene, strangely,

the scenery wants to follow,

leaving the stage bare.

That's when it's better

to rest in winter and prepare

the long boats, stack

melons upon a mattress

and cure provisions with salt.

Travel fulfills you, quite,

but you learn nothing

as the only sentient being

in a landscape, as if

you mean to prove at last

there's only room here

for one shadow.  Yours.

©Donald Brown 2010/2013