Moving Day (Vision, on the Sidewalk...)

Living in the wide fat lap
of this great premise –
that no human sin or notion
or velleity can be immune
to the illuminating parsing
of a poem – you cast
the shadows of a strained
and scattered angst upon

the waters of this verse,
as if to nurse them either
into comprehension
or – more warmly, softly –
down into the reassurance
that there’s nothing wrong
about your wavering
around the foggy intersections

of the faintest light of hope
and its excruciating plight
against a hopelessness:
which is, obliquely, to suggest
some sense of densely packed –
as if in bubble wrap –
fraught apprehension as you
sip iced coffee in a Starbuck’s –

your piano, several blocks
away, may not be making
optimally efficacious way down
many flights of stairs under
the care of four alarmingly
slim boys to whom its transit
was entrusted. (Vision:
on the sidewalk, busted.)


.