Here's a first draft I drafted sitting in the Coffeehouse yesterday. It amuses me a bit. As always, comments welcome. Some day soon, I should discuss why I do/don't talk about the politics of poetics. But for now, not that.
All fall I’ve wandered hallways.
All fall the juncos and cranes have drifted
flying above hallways tiled with linoleum
hearing a call mostly magnetic.
Grandmothers and grandfathers from Michigan
follow them in comfortable sedans
with little compasses velcroed to dashboards.
Music statics to talk statics to news statics to music.
No new grandchildren this year
most of them still in schools
with leaking pipes and broken linoleum floors.
Parents and teachers both nervous
about meetings between parents and teachers.
Turning up the heat and misting yourself
will not take you back to beach trips
when your parents were younger, tauter,
still able to catch the attention of other
young, taut parents going out for frothy, sweet drinks
after the kids are asleep and the birds
migrate down the shoreline
from the Michigan hometown
where you bought your tent and you dreamed
of sleeping near the ocean.
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