Wednesday, December 2, 2015

Life As We Know It
 
When the gloss
finally goes
 
slubbered
dulled down
 
to a dreadful
shade of pale
foggy grey
 
then you get
what you
get
 
get what
you paid for
 
what you
brought home
 
then you get
finally
what you
 
somehow
deserve.


This Late, Alone
 
This late, with so few
Awake, I can take
My time
 
I can tick time
Even trick time
 
It’s all mine to divvy
Or divide
 
Spend it, or mend it
 
A drunken sailor
Drunken tailor
 
Why, I can hold
Whole hours
In my head
 
Or be led
Astray this way
My day
Going, going
 
Like I’m king
Of clocks and
Calendars
 
And Tuesday
Clingers, lingers
A disturbance
A delay
 
At 11:45
I’m alive
And alone
 
Feeling the minute
Of each minute
The slide of seconds
The heft of the hour
 
The feeling of power
Over this hour
 
I’m king of this slip
This snip of history
This late – Alone.

  homeless
 
The homeless travel light, regard
style and such with alarm and drink
from bags full of a full bag’s worth,
their full dose of today.
 
They gesture and swagger,
like dancers gone mad, got old,
fell on them hard times
We’ve heard so much about.
 
They lunch on whatever they can
wherever it comes from, where it’s
 gone from us, from bins and cans
and our dumpsters aplenty.
 
They’re satisfied with the alleys we
shade our buildings with and decorate
with our leavings -- leaving them to them,
leaving them our empties,  empties
they return to us
a nickel’s worth
at a time.
 
J.K. Durick