A new one... POEM FOR THE END OF AUGUST The real living is a series of right turns. And maybe lefts. The channels you change: ABC to NBC to what else? The courses you take: Something 101, Something 102. The sandboxes you share. It’s all reductive, not unlike the rain. The hacks tell of the singularity of snowflakes, but no one talks of the raindrops: the patterns they make, the stories they tell. And yet, I do recall a rain so ferocious (summer of ’79, I believe) that it made a catalpa tree long for its pliant youth. I also recall a rain more listless (maybe the winter of 7th grade), a rain that, try as it might, couldn’t will itself to freeze. But that is not the point right now. This is the rain of the road always taken, which sometimes leads to streets of cobblestone, but more often than not leads to highway exits. Exit 238, which goes to grey ephemera. Exit 244, which stops at the besotted fire station. Exit 259, which leads to more of the same. We are not exiting, at least not yet. There’s Labor Day to come. --Charles Passy
Posted on: Sat, 24 Aug 2013 02:00:27 +0000