IN TRANSIT by Jack Marshall
Hurrying by, halting, they stop –
the watercolor hours of the past,
and pool, sundown-smeared drops
from years which have slipped away
to a long ago that was
so brief, so fast, it strains belief there was
ever a past and the devil of daring’s tribal-
scarred daughters opened their windows
to us. As one who has known an incident
of personal weakness grows more acute
to future invitations, in the event
at attempts for recompense, I offer
this day off
to relish the randomness,
give pause for the small revisions
we can afford our flaws,
and let the seconds that rock
and roll with shock-wave news we’re swept through
not be sickened.
As Joe Heller’s “Catch-22” coo-
coo’ed, we have been working
on the wrong wound.
And though we come with all the love
we have been able to lately come to for the dead,
and have – so far – for those alive,
we thought we would love
no choice unless it was
the voice we’d have.
What use being remembered, which consists
of a future when future along with ambition
cease to exist?
In the pain of others we see
ours in their open
point of entry,
and the sudden steep rise
in the cover price to the place
money has made of promise,
and at the end of the day is able
to stash cash under the bottom-line
and mystery under the table.
Here we are, era lazily
suffocating in self-generating greenhouse
gases, and hardly in a tizzy
about human density growing to where
it will soon necessarily be verboten
to sire anymore.
What chance have we — massed
living sap in bondage to leaf-