the still of black-and-white &
the scratch of my sartorial-splendor suit:
charcoal Stetson;
smoking a cigarette with Robert Lowell,
Rod Sterling narrating my thoughts.
These quiet days of superstition and privilege
comfort and unsettle my 2018 sensibilities.
Bourbon should be displayed in my living room:
crystal glasses surrounding a crystal carafe.
That's about all that should remain from
this dusty era; this post-WWII movement of time
TOCK....TOCK....TOCK....TOCK
or maybe I'm reaching for the Yorkshire Dales
in the 40's, sitting by the warm hearth
watching the dancing flames with James Herriot.
Soon, it will be time to nap. Perhaps shower and nap. Maybe shower, shave and nap. Or just to sleep. Either way. I want to draw my best-fit line through all of the interpretations of this Fall day.
1 comment:
This poem is my attempt to record slowed time. I have these moments where I almost will clock to slow its movement, trying to reconcile the desire that many White Americans have to go back to an earlier era that wasn't better, only nostalgic and problematic. #UndiscoveredPoetry
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