OH NIKI
Barrelhead, baghead, beggar-man, thief:
you know how it is when old rhymes get
twisted, turned over, and repeated wrongly.
Five hundred times, or one, make no difference.
The rag-doll over on the corner of the chair,
empty ears and vacant eyes, knows no separation
between what things are right and what are wrong.
By category, perhaps, we're the ones who listen -
the only ones to care, the early-arrivals at some
stupid party, watching everywhere.
-
Take it easy, all this life. Accept it as it comes.
The simplest things are probably the safest:
like building a railing at the end of that steep,
dangerous stairwell, or padding the bottom of
the furniture legs. 'If the best we can do is get by,
then every little thing helps' - someone says.
-
The scars of the heavy years mark Niki's face;
being thrown to the floor like a cast-off pillow,
getting that name from a three-year-old child,
taking the cut that tore into that cloth stomach.
It's still probably all better than death - all that grief,
the moments of reverie, the remembrance of things
long forgotten, ideas down a long dark path...
Barrelhead, baghead, beggar-man, thief.
No comments:
Post a Comment