transitional times
*midst the ordinaries, not paying close attention,
the yet to be baked batter of chatter while driving past the familiar,
a plain pasta with butter conversation,
the human carbohydrates of our racing consuming energy,
she slips me up, by slipping in two words,
her icing on the cake phrasing
"transitional times"
pull over to the side of Menantic Road
in the early of the late afternoon, Saturday's reclining sunlight,
question her closely, CIA taping her words to my brain:
did she mean the late afternoon hours of our lives when
reflection of sun sprinkles on our bay voyages us as voyeurs
past the old longings and into the future recalling?
perhaps, the au contraire, the steady stepping,
sneaking away of the sheltering night so that the earth's
inhabitants and organs may be revived in yellow golden greens of damp grasses and the whiteness of a Sunday's fresh milk?
of course, of course, the times when the horizon calls,
saying come to me, cross the transition to the newness
of everything, in the ages and days of celebration of
unfamiliar entrances?*
No, no, she answers, bemusedly grinning,
not everything is a poem,
you thieving wordsmith, simply did I observe
that having an extra pair of sunglasses in the car for
transitional times
was a good idea!
*pulling back on the road that goes past the
Tuck Ice Cream Shoppe, the island treasure hunt Dump, the ordinary homes on the range, all along the way to the boatyard where are kept and stored and stockpiled each summer colored sunset evening along with the drinkable French pink Rose wines and gleaming yellow Sancerre and golden ales of Nantucket,
I think to myself,*
nuh uh,
*every transition,
every glorious mindless conversation,
even in the town dump,
treasures in each word, in everything, especially the
extra extra-ordinaries,
is a poem*
June 25. 2017
5:20am
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 5:42 AM UTC
transitional times
*midst the ordinaries, not paying close attention,
the yet to be baked batter of chatter while driving past the familiar,
a plain pasta with butter conversation,
the human carbohydrates of our racing consuming energy,
she slips me up, by slipping in two words,
her icing on the cake phrasing
"transitional times"
pull over to the side of Menantic Road
in the early of the late afternoon, Saturday's reclining sunlight,
question her closely, CIA taping her words to my brain:
did she mean the late afternoon hours of our lives when
reflection of sun sprinkles on our bay voyages us as voyeurs
past the old longings and into the future recalling?
perhaps, the au contraire, the steady stepping,
sneaking away of the sheltering night so that the earth's
inhabitants and organs may be revived in yellow golden greens of damp grasses and the whiteness of a Sunday's fresh milk?
of course, of course, the times when the horizon calls,
saying come to me, cross the transition to the newness
of everything, in the ages and days of celebration of
unfamiliar entrances?*
No, no, she answers, bemusedly grinning,
not everything is a poem,
you thieving wordsmith, simply did I observe
that having an extra pair of sunglasses in the car for
transitional times
was a good idea!
*pulling back on the road that goes past the
Tuck Ice Cream Shoppe, the island treasure hunt Dump, the ordinary homes on the range, all along the way to the boatyard where are kept and stored and stockpiled each summer colored sunset evening along with the drinkable French pink Rose wines and gleaming yellow Sancerre and golden ales of Nantucket,
I think to myself,*
nuh uh,
*every transition,
every glorious mindless conversation,
even in the town dump,
treasures in each word, in everything, especially the
extra extra-ordinaries,
is a poem*
June 25. 2017
5:20am
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