We try to stick to canned goods these days.
Not that it’s particularly easy, mind you,
As the expiry dates have come and gone;
You have to have a feel for what ages well
And what simply can’t be trusted.
Some of the stuff in jars is OK, if the seal’s good
And it hasn’t had too much unnaturally bright light or heat.
Sometimes, in frustration or fear or just plain madness,
We’ll grab a couple of pieces of fruit or berries
Straight from a tree or bush
(Just a brief, guilty nibble, mind you,
As our wiring for self-preservation quickly takes over,
Though that’s akin to insanity in itself;
Indeed, a considerable number of people
Won’t even consider stepping outside anymore.)
We have come to this place, then,
Carrying our threadbare blankets,
Our dented and dinged peas and garbonzos
To this portentously lush locale
(Nature’s metamorphosis, now running in overdrive,
Having its winners among its throng of losers,
Sitting among a recklessness of flowers
Which have smartened themselves up
In sizes and hues heretofore unknown)
As what passes for evening takes hold
(The daytime air so stultifying and adulterated
They don’t even bother issuing warnings and advisories any more.)
We watch the odd, unsettling out-of-place aurorae,
Not giving utterance to the obvious—is this the one?—
But choosing to soft-shoe our way through the hours
With small talk, the odd kiss and cuddle
(There are those who have taken the humanity of affection
Beyond the merely foolhardy or oblivious,
Cults of propagation comprised of odd Gnostic outliers,
Dreamy and staunch proponents of extraterrestrial rescuers.)
As the darkness takes hold, we lift our faces to the stars
(For the nights are always starry,
Clouds being relegated to only memory)
And as they sit above us, stark, awesome in the oldest sense,
It is hard not to think of what an ancient man
Wrote of one equally ancient to him,
That though they have seen the totality of our folly,
They remain wholly without fault.
