Suddenly feeling bereft of political energy—possibly because I'm going home this weekend to help (as much help as a weekend will give) cleaning and excavating my parents' house, which has been unlived-in since my dad's death nearly a year ago. Thirty years and more of accumulated stuff in that basement, a slow tide that rose to all but cover the suburban-obligatory pool table, and any of the spaces we played in as kids. It's the only house any of us ever lived in before adulthood, so the work ahead isn't just physically daunting.

In lieu of politics, then, another poem: one of mine, this time, that I got just this morning. Lighter than my usual thing, even romantic in a way. Yeah, I usually segregate this stuff to the Poetry Corner, but I don't feel like it this time.

newcomers

I'm on the southwest corner, across
the street, looking at you
through a hill of glass.  I'm eating
my soup with the giant tongs
of the setting sun.  I'm singing
"Sweet Caroline" at opera
volume to the passing
squad cars.  Someday, when I'm no longer
of earth, you'll rescue
this page from the dumpster
and go flying with it:  over houses
and Kwik Stops, over marketing scams,
over trees and the statues
of trees, as one of the
possessed:  and they'll send
for your husband and tell him
to take off work, because the traffic
lights are broken and the lake
is moving in from the shore.  Let me be you
a little while longer, as in truth
I was hardly ever
myself; let the clangor
of unresolved song subside
around you.  The day is being wheeled
into its vault, and across the street
the eyes of Paris
are open.  This is a swell world
still, for us newcomers to it.

posted by michael  7:50:14 PM  
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