by DeWitt Clinton
What can we do, this late in life?
Peeling a grape isn’t quite so charming,
Even writing about peeling a grape,
Well, it’s not the same as back then.
But there’s so much back then, and if
We do go back, we’ll likely make it all
Up, as who still remembers the beach,
The blue pool, even the ocean liner
Seems so far away from us, and, of course,
It is. What’s ahead seems like reaching
For the window blinds, easily opened
In the morning sunlight, but maybe it
Doesn’t always seem so simple, so easy,
Just pull on the strings, see what’s out
There, though that just might be the
Problem. Can we ever see enough of
What we’ve seen so much of? Perhaps
It doesn’t really matter, perhaps it will
Get worse, but we’re so accustomed to
What’s out there that we’ll seldom
Know when it is worse, even if we try
To make the best of out of something
We hardly know anything about.
It’s not like those strolls in Paris, or
All those winding streets in Florence,
Or even looking out into the blue sea,
Wondering what’s for lunch on that
Island we’ll soon land on. That’s
Probably all we’ll need, just that, or
Possibly something like that, and then,
Just like that, we’ll awaken, having
Breathed steadily, slowly all through
The night. Isn’t that what we want?
Isn’t that something? Say it with me.