The Politics of Keeping Still
Midway through launching whispers
Into the mangrove, the whistle blew.
Time in our little launderette
Spun out while last year’s back issues
Posed their frail queries: which vault
For these leftovers, for that disinherited spoon?
Weather is a crazy thing, crackling back
To the closet under the stairs, the one
We never open. And the old chestnuts
Lie in their bed of laurels untouched.
Seasons come and go in various brands of moonlight.
Why are we all still here?
Shouldn’t there be an upgrade by now?
Like a knot loosening, or that novel
By Henry James (the one with broken spine)
We’d always meant to get around to finally finishing.
Sure, there’s still plenty left to do now
The bowling alley is closed for the season.
Enjoy a free trial with no obligation.
The escalators run continually with or without you.
Bastille Day Sale
You read about things like this
Happening to other people.
The long slide into the temperate zone
With its hints of lavender, its whites
Out of season. Something like that.
Long days followed by long nights, but
Life in the suburbs was all soda and crackers
By then. Greasy kid stuff.
They were happy until they were not.
No birthday lunch this year. So
A solemn jugularity seized the day. Well,
That dog won’t hunt. And so many unopened
Bank statements. Nevertheless,
I have enclosed the picture-postcard
On which this note wouldn’t fit.
We all make our own fun.
Kenneth Anderson lives and writes in what the Board of Tourism calls “Connecticut’s Quiet Corner.” He has flirted with the worlds of academia, corporate enterprise, healthcare management, and small business but escaped each with his soul more or less intact. He has a cat.