In the parking garage at dawn
\nthe rows of cars nose the lean
\nmoon setting over the suburbs.
\nI lie back and listen to ticks
\nof engines cooling; the air,<\/p>\n
although November, sultry
\nenough to spoon and eat.
\nDriving this far this early
\nhas warped me to fit a space
\nI usually don\u2019t occupy.<\/p>\n
Later I\u2019ll share this space with you
\nand your frankly remodelled outlook.
\nWe\u2019ll stroll in the Public Garden
\npast the great bronze Washington
\nand sit beneath your favourite tree.<\/p>\n
We\u2019ll paw each other like children
\nand pretend our lives haven\u2019t passed
\nin gales of debt and politics
\nbut have birthed themselves over
\nand over until perfected.<\/p>\n
But for one anodized moment
\nhere in the parking garage
\nthe moon settling in the west
\nis a hole through which I\u2019m passing
\nto reach the innocence beyond.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Tangled in black and white stripes
\nyou look imprisoned. I rumple
\nthe bedclothes to free you
\nto unwind your sweaty limbs.<\/p>\n
The distant view at the window
\nbeams as we play at being
\nourselves and not the others
\nwe always meet on the street.<\/p>\n
The view, a slur of high-tops
\nsoaring from the MIT campus
\nand foreground of slouching townhouses,
\ncasts shadows that mimic the black<\/p>\n
and white stripes of your cotton sheets.
\nHow wonderful to sprawl here
\nwith the city bracing itself
\nfor another round of lovemaking.<\/p>\n
Morning traffic sharks forward,
\nalways forward, and the cries
\nof young people on the street invoke
\nthe entire forty years we lost,<\/p>\n
losing each other; and now
\nwe have this heap of crumpled linen
\nand our bodies gleaming, polished
\nby so many lifetimes of use.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
In watercolour autumn dawn
\nyou\u2019re singing off-key to the cats
\nto amuse them as you slop<\/p>\n
canned food onto their dishes.
\nThis morning your dental appointment
\nlooms like the Rosetta stone,<\/p>\n
both an object and an event.
\nTomorrow at the hand clinic
\nin Boston I\u2019ll offer my paw<\/p>\n
for appraisal as if an old dog
\nhad learned a new trick. Gradually
\nour bodies undermine us.<\/p>\n
The middle-aged son of our friends
\nin Wilton is dying of cancer\u2014
\nfluids pouring into fluids<\/p>\n
that otherwise would never mingle.
\nThe sister-in-law of a colleague
\nsuffers with a ventilator<\/p>\n
and can move only two fingers
\nwith which on a tablet she types
\nwords she hopes will memorialize<\/p>\n
the collapse of all her systems.
\nThe pale light in the white pines
\nlooks plain enough to accept<\/p>\n
the faintest scrawls of language,
\nyet nothing occurs except a crow,
\nand in the malleable distance<\/p>\n
a V of Canada geese. A scrape
\nof leafless maples excites
\nfor a moment. Then the chill<\/p>\n
recovers its poise, retaining
\nonly your voice trebling
\nin the kitchen, and the cats<\/p>\n
responding with cries of pleasure
\nthat back in nature they\u2019d reserve
\nfor the triumph of a kill.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
WILLIAM DORESKI<\/strong> recently retired after years of teaching at Keene State College in New Hampshire (USA). His most recent book of poetry is The Suburbs of Atlantis<\/em> (2013). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell\u2019s Shifting Colors<\/em>. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in many journals. You can follow him on Twitter @wdoreski<\/a> and find more of his work on his blog, williamdoreski.blogspot.com<\/a><\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" One Anodized Moment In the parking garage at dawn the rows of cars nose the lean moon setting over the suburbs. I lie back and listen to ticks of engines cooling; the air, although November, sultry enough to spoon and… Continue Reading
\n