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Forget sleep. Watch stillness, Silence, darkness, three illusions Over the orange grove where feet and flashlights clatter with toothless men Whose greasy fingers poke the wet spots, The flooded ditches. Whose shadow is This, the smell of menthol and putrefaction, In a small room where there are Horses on the wall and no ashtrays? I leave it to the professionals, who Are not weak men, and who savor their work. "Why can't you keep track Of the things you borrow?" That is what she used to say; That is what she will say tonight. There will be no color in her eyes, No touching or familial feeling. Meanwhile, zero gravity, waiting, The smell of bad teeth, The wink of a lantern, a moral voice From the orange grove pointing All the rancor home through a window In a horse-rimmed room, to its source Who drinks coffee and regret. So far no clues. No muddy tennis shoe, no rusty BB gun. Nothing sticky in the reservoir. For some things there is, Simply enough, no forgiving. Cigarettes die, coffee goes cold, Search parties, loved ones give up. |
Copyright 1979 Andrew Wells.
All rights reserved.
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andywells2@aol.com.