IN TRANSIT    by   Jack Marshall

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

just yesterday,



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

from hours,



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-

less beholdenness



on spindly strings –

carried on tireless

wide wings of last things.

(c) Jack Marshall,  6.3.14