METRO LACE

V. (cont.)

May 22

If it's not later, it must be now.

Or so we'll say when the procession begins.

Unison brings out the best in some people,

the rest shall keep as they are,

or maybe take a few drags on a Djarum

and reminisce about how we all

liked what we liked then.

She said she found his hand on her thigh,

uninvited.  Thereafter, a shambles

of all that high-minded sham,

as if pierced with insight, again.

Men will be boys, always prepped

for some great anointing, riddled

with gifts out there in the sticks,

planning on someday making a comeback

with a discourse on confidence tricks,

what we mean when we say “deficit.”

Were you hoping for something original,

like an effort made on behalf of us all,

a tower with high-toned gables

so we might move in next door?

There are reasons they're leaving

and won't look back, but taut silk

and blousy muslin have nothing to do with it,

those are simply signs of indeterminacy,

of forgotten persons, like Einstein's daughter,

or phantom entities like Prester John.

We've stacked the chairs before the door,

have gathered hats in case of rain,

distributed tops and blocks and kites,

and stored the nunchuks, shivs,

and brass knuckles with the boomerang.

Inventory is the secret god

of mercantilism, or that's what

we were told at sleep-away camp, those

gladsome days among the pines, the water

mind-numbingly cold, and the cabins

humid at twilight.  Printed photos kept

our identity intact until now,

as the light comes up outside the window

we realize at once how much the others

depend on us to maintain discipline

and not simply shrug off discomfort,

for without the fresh eyes of dawn,

the round mouth of night, the trick thumb

of noon we'd have expired for sure,

unaware of chat-room protocol, teams,

and all the guests that come with them,

many with attractive gadgets

that need to be recharged.  No surprise,

the plaster dust got in the gears

and made the clock wheeze.  A joke

at first some thought it, but later

as if in a trance or on a commercial,

we took stock of the staff cuts,

the pay stubs, the circulating sheet

for signatures.  Eventually,

officers came and carted him away

in an ambulance, but for an hour

Dave lay oblivious to us all on the steps

of that sustainable shop, swallowed,

we could say, by the abyss behind

the eyes, or afloat on the unruffled brow

of an ageless, nameless god.

These days parking lots

are filled more often than not,

especially

near theme parks and airports.

People gather

when they travel,

hand themselves over,

publicly,

to a uniformed contingent.

When the doors open,

we find ourselves

somewhere else—

reason enough

for shared fantasies,

flashes of sudden

vertigo

or claustrophobia, the odd drop

in air pressure or explosion.

The quiet of the street is quite inspiring,

this late.

            On the shadowy patch of pavement

the odor of the trees closes in.

                                                One feels—

if attentive—as if one's head is in a pine box,

oh how cozy.

                        Like a tunnel, you know

you're through it when you are.

                                                Every step

creates a space for itself, have you noticed?

And every voice joins its face in creating

a unity, a gestalt, a game of matched attributes.

We're mostly trading laughter when we're not

comparing maladies, aches and pains, losses,

and where to get a good deal on drugs.

What's rare, it seems, is interpersonal continuity.

Those we recognize may surface at any time,

others are too far back to reappear easily,

and still others reside like a low hum in the ear,

so constant you can easily overlook its presence.

But the ones hardest to account for we forever

associate with a particular time and place

that, no matter how vivid, lively, and suitable

for framing, slips away into a special folder

rarely opened, though there's no cause for alarm,

yet.  In most cases, the contents will emerge

unscathed when called upon—but sometimes

we find it empty, nothing appears, and we're

shocked to admit we've seen the last of it.

Rounding up what pleases you

shouldn't be as selfish as it sounds,

you can always remove the hard drive

and make it a paper weight or door stop,

hedge your bets, collect your funds,

withdraw your support, withhold

your vote, remove all traces

of your participation except

the minimal ID tags, your

uncanceled check, soft

money, last words.

Standing flushed at the party

as the lights come up may be briefly

disappointing, but how elated you'll be

at finding yourself among the others.

That's the way I'd always remember myself if I were you.

©Donald Brown 2010/2013