Our city fathers and mothers picked this place
To file and forget whatever they don't want
Or can't stand or have no other idea
What to do with. They have it all hauled here
To be mashed and leveled and seeded by the wind
And left to percolate and brew
And settle to what they hope looks natural.
Because I feel obliged to contribute something
And not just stand here, I sit down. And at once,
The old horizon is raked over
By bluegrass and tassels of wild oats and the crowned heads
Of Queen Anne's lace and other tough survivors
And aimless pioneers. Biologists say
You're seldom more than six feet from an ant,
And here they come to analyze my shoes
And the rest of me, which is more than I can do.
The ants and weeds and I have something in common:
We can cast shadows. We can metabolize
For a while. We can reflect daylight just as long
As it lasts. We can persist in the folly of being
Ourselves. We can add and multiply and divide.
We can disobey the laws of vagrancy,
Assembly, and trespass. We can feel inclined
To put our six-or-less, more-or-less best feet
Forward, backward, or deeper into the earth
Briefly before we lie down on our jobs,
Before we decide to lower our expectations
And join the rest, making ourselves scarce.
No comments:
Post a Comment