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It is not yet a tragedy. The eggshell of the polished skull Is still intact, The workings workable. They are not yet baffled by broccoli, Not yet Hopelessly interrogated by carrots, Not yet Shaking hands with the dog's hind leg. And maybe it will never Come quite to that: The clock losing its numbers, The newspaper dropping its dates, The banana peels Ripening to hysteria, The pavements ejaculating. Maybe it will merely be, One day, A friction of vowels and then a halt. It is not yet a disaster. The sun is still bright Though not The luminary promise that it was. It is not yet a disaster But it is a halt: Activity without purpose, The recycling of friction. On the gawgle box The monkey is watching the dog's legs. On the CD The music of the narwhal Explicates the meaning of life. And this goes nowhere. Tyre pressure but no journey. Elsewhere, the busy world is still at work, Flushing the oceans, Stripmining the skies. Here, the conveyor belts have halted. The calendar is pointillistic with propositions: Coffee, teeth, blood pressure. Reality has no masterplan. The career has flatlined. The architecture of the future Is collage. Life is confetti falling Through the winds of smoke. It is the way Of all flesh. Things lose their purposes and pass. Falling feathers forget the flying bird. |
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This poem COLLAGE was first published when posted online by Hugh Cook on 2005 May 15 Sunday. Copyright © 2005 Hugh Cook.
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getting older poem
aging poem
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retirement poem
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All materials on this website can be read for free online. However, note that the website contents are copyright © 1973-2006 Hugh Cook - all rights reserved. For permission to use any of the material on this website contact Hugh Cook.
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