646. VACATIONLAND : FAT THINKING IN THE SUN

VACATIONLAND : FAT THINKING
IN THE SUN
The manor house burned to the ground,
arching an eddy where the guardhouse
once stood; so many things to define the
day. And now, along the old canal, where
only the guardhouse is left to rot, come people
carrying their summer bags and hiking clothes,
and bicycles too. Everything in a whine,
like phone chatter concentrated and entwined.
Do they know what they see? Do they
understand their losses and voids?
-
This was once real ground - secreted with dirt
and toil, a serious thing for serious people.
Now, lined with the doggerel and the flowers
of the very same people who brought us grime
and Spic & Span and crime, it lingers in some
valley of incessant cheap death. Military dogtags,
like jewelry, around haggard wattles of necks
and wrists. It makes me wonder, to look at this -
300 years of an American culture running amok,
precocious kiddies and a four-wheel truck.
-
I can't say what the matter is;
only what the matter was.