62. Of Impotence, Considered As Exile

    Of Impotence, Considered As Exile

 

Sunday, and the park. A week's work done,

We sprawl. I hearken for any footsteps from

Beyond the Tropic of Carrion, where

Almost too long ago to care

I left, but all I hear are the breezes of

Your breathing bearing along some sort of hum.

 

By now you understand the stare with which

My shifting eyes fix on your civic building

Across the way, its classic marbles.

Such would be a hive of horrors

Back in that heat, where even its clean rhythms

Would warp like laminate, in a steam of stinks.

 

We speak: my words slur if I pronounce too fast;

Yours ring clear, accented without accent.

My tongue, is a jungle thicket

Aclamor with simian imprecations,

Meant for interrupting, not outlasting.

You? You say it is the word which matters.

 

Often that must do. In truth I will scarcely

Ever understand these uplands where

What would have been effrontery

Is frankness; openhanded ease

Plunges me in the vertigo of a careless

Climber suddenly face to face with air.

 

And yet, I would not leave. This is my country,

If not my state. A specialist, I function

Well, though I am paid better.

Following the changes of weather,

I learn the seasons, holidays, and customs;

Do the planting when it must be done.

 

Late August, and the park is a bland plain,

So restful. Can the absence of old pain

Be pleasure? Other refugees

Can keep the deepening intrigues;

I have my son to watch, as he plays the games

Of this, the land where he will live, a native.

 

 

Comments

[Kamagra.be]

This is a very nice rhyme or poem...i loved it..very creative and interesting one.. The more I read the more I wanted to read.Thank You.