Saturday, October 23, 2010
When you Pass Go, Collect $200
After John AshberyHow little we know of someone’s brain,
and not that we want to!
Too much static going on.
Who was it who said, “We had macaroni each day,
except Sunday. Wait! I know who wrote that!
It was….
Never mind, the bottlebrushes are blooming
at my window. Geraldton Wax flairs pink.
I envy the spring, signs of new life each year,
while I’m getting older.
Soon, I have to take up riding.
It will be body fat on centre leather. Yet there's
a certain stillness where you push your legs through,
pathways of gum nuts, acacia pollen that backs up
with the breeze, joggers in white headbands.
Whether or not I make it, it will be fun,
nostrils aflare, track suit flapping. I’ll have to
squander spring before the summer comes, thinking
about Sunday lunch, the heat of the two emerging
into walls.
What do I make of walls?
They have freedom when someone’s gone.
I can’t wait to shuffle back into mine, touch
the emptiness. Two relaxed feet under the desk
will be mine, the cat on my lap, too.
When I come up for air, I’ll pass go.
Collect $200.
