the poetrysheet
whimsy, subversion, bowling
Number 459, Feb. 2, 2004
Gaius Valerius Catullus (84-54 B.C.)
“She was staring out the window now on a scene from
another century, the sharp-edged pines and a farmhouse framed in its own pale
glow and the shadow of the barn beyond. They were asleep in there, the farmer
and his wife, the kids, the dog. There would be an old oak table in the
kitchen, heavy pink Fiesta ware set out for breakfast, a calendar on the wall.
The refrigerator would clank on, it would hum, and then it would shut down, and
no one would notice, not even the dog.
—T.C. Boyle, Drop City
I’m not gonna moan, but I am. The weekend was rough.
Up too late, tired all the time. Dogs won’t let up. Lotsa stuff going all the
time. Seemed like there was a million fleas in my undies.
But that wasn’t the worst part of it. I had stuff to
do, real stuff. Not your everyday fix the toilet and try to get the bills paid
kinda stuff, but work for the future, real hard-assed thinking kinda stuff.
And I couldn’t get it done. Dogs barkin’. TV yakkin’.
A million people in and out of the place. I can’t do anything right, and I’m
feeling about the middle of Saturday how I can’t get a break. Finally, Sunday
mornin’, I blow my top, yell at my kid and wife, take the to truck and do some
drivin’. Just see the city. Go some places I ain’t been in a while. See a pal.
You see, when I leave, I’m the rightest guy in the
world. Never been more right in my life. By the time I get the ice of the
windshield and the truck turned over and down to the end of the block, I’m
coolin’ off, settlin’ in to reg’lar breathin’ and takin’ a look around.
The day’s cloudy and rainy turnin’ to sleet. To me,
it’s the prettiest weather in the world. It starts getting’ in under my collar,
lightenin’ things up. The truck’s misbehaving a little on the ice, which is
good fun. Then, by the time I get to my pals house, I’m not so down, not so red
in the face.
His place is warm, all yellow inside with a couple of
lamps. And quiet. No TV, just some books and notebooks around. The kind of
place I want. I start thinkin’ to myself, home ain’t so bad. It’s warm like
this. Light’s all right. And I like my kid and my wife.
What do I gotta be upset about? I ain’t getting’ my
way? What’s new? I take back to the street after givin’ my pal a hug and think
a little more, spin the wheels on the truck a little. What’s gonna fix me up, I
figure, is making sure the tube’s off and I got the newspaper over my face when
I nod off to a map.
When I woke up, it was still rainy outside. The dogs
were waggin’ tails like I was God’s gift. I fished out a few treats and took
them out to sniff the bushes.
Life isn’t so bad, really. But sometimes I wish I was
one of those damned dogs. Sniff a bush. Take a pee. Get a treat.
Today’s poem:
By Lee Ingalls
Given the time of day I was between the
train
station and the office, on my way down
that familiar north-south line through
stoplights,
along the edges of vast parking lots,
dodging
hell-bent cars and municipal sprinklers,
over nearly continuous squares
of concrete I had worn microns smoother
in my several years of back and forth.
I stopped under the morning’s tall blue light
on the footbridge over the off ramp,
where the crows
often gather in winter to hear the power
lines buzz.
On some mornings incongruous cattle graze
the hillsides above Highway 24,
cow-eyeing
the traffic in diffident cow-ponder, if
they notice at all.
But on this morning the crows crouched
elsewhere
and the cows stood in other pastures, or
were herded
to some other place (on which I chose not
to speculate).
What looked to be kestrels kited in the
shafts
of air above the freeway’s clack and hum.
Further up, a passenger plane set its
nose
for the jet stream, crossing over the
pale crescent
of the rising moon that orbited leagues
beyond.
My mouth must have fallen open because
I felt the silver rope jerk as the bird
of prey
tethered in my chest sprang for my
throat.
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