Another Plague Poem
A light coming from under the door —
blue splash, staccato flicker,
the muffled insistence of caged voices;
a low buzzing noise that you can only hear
when you shift a thought from
what you imagine you are seeing
back to the ever present dread
that never left.
Alone in the adjoining room again,
and all the carnival barkers careen
about Mourning in America,
and you in your pajama bottoms
and soft cotton shirt
are wearing a path in the cold tile floor
from the kitchen to the couch.
Even if you think we have never been here before,
you have seen the color of this paint
on the wall and the flaw on
the corner of the coffee table
and the cluster of bookmarks in a box on the shelf
and the stack of books you are reading
a few pages at a time but all at once,
as if the primary themes will merge together
and become one brilliant idea
that will be like a flashlight
or a blazing torch
out of this room.
The television drones on
and the voices rattle and click,
and the sun beats down on the window
with the fury of a dissipated rain storm,
and that is coming too, again, it
hasn’t rained in almost two days.
The old thing they say where you get to the point
where you are going through the motions,
and all of the motions you have memorized,
down to the crick in your elbow and the tilt
of your chin and the glaze of your eyes.
Trying to find a way closer to god
by learning to love yourself
feels like a racket,
but you will keep trying something new,
because all of the old tricks
have lost their appeal and there is
something still shiny
about a new idea, even if it is
dead already.
–New Orleans, 4 Sept 2020
