Monday, March 12, 2018

Means of Transport

Think about it, take a cab, go get tested in a lab,
call your little brother to remind you of that joke,
order six six-packs of Coke, study Latin harder –
as if you’d quantities of answers kept like eggs
and milk and butter in a larder, fresh as long
as you believed in them, ready for the choosing,
using, losing.  But how exactly do you get from in
to out to there to here to anywhere? Your means
of transport are a queer shenanigan – imagine if
we knew that what you do to make the story of your life
come true depends on flying in un-flyable contraptions,
so disastrously incapable of getting off the ground
that anyone who saw you trying to effect a flight that way,
would stare, embarrassed, down, away, too stricken
at the sight of it to meet your eyes: and yet in spite of it
you rise, and sometimes even soar, or if not soar
then hop and stumble and get up again and dream
of so much more of what and where you think you are
that you’ve no doubt that’s where and what you'll be.
Your real life is a mystic inning in a ballgame no one
knows you’re playing every day. No one, anyway, but me.
That’s what you don’t say. That’s the secret unconveyable
essential key to how you get to something for which
you can care, how you can bear believing what you see.
You say that none of it is true. No room in it for you:
don’t know with whom it has to do – unless it’s me.
Must be me, the chimpanzee. You say it’s time
I climbed back up my tree.

No comments: