The Pleasure of Filling Space
You took a walk. The clock
on the wall clicks,
a chair scrapes. A
book can be worse than
solitary confinement.
Long before, you blacked-in
the air and hour
for their own sake.
But streetcars and pekingese being
separate ideas after all,
the trouble's your own, if they
strike off at random.
You are now approaching
Euclid on the square.
It's a face-off. Stark
white kleenex and duck feathers
block the path quickly.
Jump. Aim for time
to join your clattering right
wing with attack group
number one, thus becoming
sure of insurance steps
to make the street safe
for your relative life.
So you're the book
in the man who honks his bone.
Lie still, lie still.
Here comes the present.
Structure
28 lines · 7 stanzas