METRO LACE

VI. (continued)

May 26, morning

I can feel him in the morning

like the guitar line

in “Free as a Bird,”

working its way

like a creek

through the woods

behind the housing development.

We want you to appear in our next study

of the habits of disconnected adults,

and the pool of candidates

is large, too large to be contained

in a single group photo.  Our apologies.

Step outside to breathe the air

if you must, don't bother

to hobnob with the donors,

sure, you can light one up

or knock one back, I won't tell.

Have they fashioned your droid

becomingly, all systems go?

It was like that in the frontlines,

always some joker trying to

micromanage, and then that talk

about Korea makes me nervous.

It's like the dialogue in a bad movie

we've committed to memory

for the sake of finding new meaning.

What are the odds, lieutenant,

and tell me, who was saved?

Was it a village or a pontoon bridge

you had your eye on?  No matter.

Stand down.  You've been relieved.

You'd think by now we'd find other means

of funding, but it's not so, everyone

seems inured to corporate glory

and the best historical sense

money can buy, after the fact.

That dream of the future

closing over us like quicksand

tends to discomfit the new recruits.

Doc Sprat always said, “milk

that turkey till he grins, and if he hollers

let 'm go, and if you hit paydirt,

keep digging.”  But that was long ago

when men were men and women

were men dressed differently.  Today

we all dress the same, all the worse

for wear and tear, or better for mousse

and cosmetics.  Typify the entablature

of the early Ionian, if it amuses you.

Me, I wouldn't go near the excavation

in this condition.  There are simply

too many unknowns, like the consistency

of the topsoil, and the names and states

of the neighboring towns, the effect

of the tax hike, the plans for drainage.

Don't get me wrong, I'm always

pleased to see you, a smile

can last me a year, but just now

I've begun to suspect our time

together is ending.  After all,

you've already changed your hair

as though trying to catch the eye

of another.  It's alright, I'm behind

in my accounts of the risible spectacle

and have promises to keep, your

house plants and dietary restrictions

are the least of my concerns.  Should

you get back this way in a year or two,

look me up in the usual haunts,

assuming they can be found.  Yes.

Me too.  Now scram.  It's closing time.

The danger of appearing in best light,

whether on film or not, will be our next topic.

For those of you who prefer videotape,

the way to oblivion awaits. Digitize

your random moments of inattention,

pretend to the omniscience of gods,

those rare and lucky beings on whom

nothing is lost, except perhaps this:

a moment that could be anywhere,

the twitter of birds, whine of an

electric saw, breeze in the trees,

rumble of automotive acceleration,

distant voices, unintelligible, male.

Don't fret, mon ami, some days

the world ceases to be cinematic.

That doesn't mean you need to have

your eyes checked, only that

the smell of cinnamon might

come as a surprise, make you recall

the cold plastic of the chair, birds

in the yard in the early light,

radio playing that Doors tune

all summer.  School's out now.

©Donald Brown 2010/2013