BENDING TO THE BLEND
It's early morning again, and I've straggled sleep
and its denizens of torture, left it all behind, forgetting
already what to remember about a dream I sense
I may have had; and isn't that the weirdest sensation,
not even being sure of that which you're quickly
forgetting. Was it a dream then, or not? And
what is all this hazy, strange memory?
-
And then blackfriars come on to the train, bound -
as they always are - for either New Brunswick or
Trenton. No other place holds them - midnight stay-overs
from a New York City frolic, still drunk they pass out,
prone, on the otherwise vacant seats in an otherwise
vacant train. I get to watch them sleep and hear them
snore. Neither a delight nor a bore, I withstand the
faint disgust that wishes to rise up. All things pass.
-
But how they all must live. I get their stares occasionally :
some doughty white guy with a morning sack and a book
to read. What's up with that? Then their phone will ring
and they're on to other things - the sing of a voice,
the slap of a dash and a text. I cannot really care.
-
Bending to the blend, I guess I do what I must do :
walk the line, beneath the trees as the light opens up,
hearing the birds assault with sound the fleeing dark.
I love it all, it's textured right, and I take it in. I do
not speak; instead just keep on my way. Bending
to the blend, it's just another day.
No comments:
Post a Comment