My loyal devices address me
by my first name, they know me
so well. “Vamanos, Ron!” Fitbit
encourages me. Together
we head out into the cold day.
Later when I hear the bus tires
spin on the morning
snow, I think, no one really
has a thousand, or even
a hundred, words
for snow. And should
snow want to be known
as “Snow,” or “Ron,”
it’d have to fight this
morning traffic to make it
happen. And configure accounts
for its own array of devices.
Eventually a thin film
of briny mud coats the
bus windows:
it’s beginning to look a lot like
a proper noun, a lot like
a seasonal mood
or other, this roasted barley
and apricot sort of day,
like every kind of self-
referential feeling
you let pass without considering.
Call me cynical, call me lost.
Look out from the cavernous
hood of a parka with me
and make your apologies.
That unshaven artiste who
stood on the corner
brandishing his bells and whistles, his
hells and thistles, his
made-new turns of phrase and
nameless selves
moving busily through
bourgeois labyrinths of identity,
just the same as you and me,
breathless with keeping up
with the busy busy hipster makers,
he’s gone to his great reward.
By which I mean he’s
spending winter in Boca
and getting a lot of golf in.
His underpaid caddy calls him
by his first name, when he dares.
But he’s in your Contacts.
He might or might not
return by Memorial Day.
Some say he left
one last note. Read between
the lines and see everything
we thought we knew about him
was a lie. Bah! I turn off my phone,
feel vaguely seasick
by the motion of politics, or the bus.
The day surrounds me like a great
desert. Like an endless ocean;
like a vast landfill. Like any number
of unpleasantnesses avoided
as topics at family gatherings. Love,
death, the changing of seasons. I mean,
religion, politics, and death.
Or was it sex, drugs,
and rock n’ roll. Maybe
simpler to keep quiet during
all holiday celebrations. And –
oh shit, I think I missed my stop.
If the political is personal,
or vicey-versey, then
we in trouble deep, friend.
Trouble, strife, grief.
Gloom, despair, and agony
on me! Would I
have ever thought
back in the day, that I could
miss cleaning the cats’ litter pan?
Oh, my lost little friends, oh.
I recite each of their names quietly
to myself.
It’s quiet for a while.
Wounds re-open without warning.
Heal again; just breathe. Later on
as I’m still crossing
the great frozen desert
of the day, someone
calls out my name.
Without looking up
I assume they’re
talking to someone else.