Rearrangement

by

Frank Valentyn

She left again this morning
confess I heard no sound
no shower running
no clothing rummaged through
no front door closing
not the higher tone
of a reverse gear down the driveway

I fell in
with the day’s determined framework
did bed and washing up of last night’s stir-fry
somewhere in the Himalayas
fresh snow-glitter and banks of white mist
still sceptical of Peter O’Toole’s hoisting
of that torpedo without it exploding
and why the mission nurse preferred
the older barge driver
to Murphy’s pilot-mechanic dash

I thought: the hell with it -
habit brings secure frustration
there’s total absence of creation
in rearrangement
thought about gently ambling
down the road, as if in sightseeing
nude, like an unaccustomed alien tourist
with the UFO securely parked and invisible
but the outcome would be too predictable
an hour or so now before she’s back
just time to have a shower
and to think up thirty lines
of inestimably foaming poetry
with the sponge as meditational object
forgotten all, no doubt
never to be written
time - caffeine dose
and naming tributaries of the Orinoco

Visions of sitting drip-wet
at the computer, trying to remember
and Murphy’s last "Jaysus"
as the waters close over him

- why it was Palestine
and not the natives of Venezuela
visited, only indirectly by missionaries
catalyzing a zealous smallpox
perhaps: to bestow acquired immunity
relieving an ancient naturalness
like wet tracks in the thick pile carpet
when coming home, loincloth
and three speared fish
from the wide river

NEXT?
Why don't you look at I Don't Care
by: Baseer Ahmed
from: White Plains, NY, US

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