651. DISANT

DISANT
'A sa maniere' the genuflecting fellow,
the abbott, said - what he meant was this,
paraphrasing some new Bible of the air:
'What you need do is nothing at all, and at
your own pace. The entire world is a tedious
place.' And then...yes, hands upheld in resignation,
with no energy even for a assignation, he stepped away.
We are a worrisome sort. We say things we hadn't ought.
'John Barleycorn must die. If I had a nickel for every time...
She's built like a brick shithouse. That guy's as crazy as a loon.

Women have hidden drives, penis envy, and they get hives.'
-
Resignation, just a sick and tired resignation.
A pale backdrop of time and light and effort,
sum-totaling: Nothing at all. You ask, perhaps,
how? Now it is my own turn (to say something
daring) : 'a sa maniere' - in one's own fashion,
in one's own fashion, be that whatever,

and however it may be.
-
Now, so much time later, I look back.
The black dog, Rinny, is dead and gone.
The shed I had built is crumbled and gone.
The ideas I once nursed, of clinical dreams
and fantastic creations, are gone, all gone.
There is nothing to mind me but dust,
and a rather filthy, morbid air.
A rather filthy, morbid air.
A sa maniere.