by paul handley
The best world is pieces,
that move by rules and proven ex-theories.
Part of a week includes the complex precision of
classical music, born at a time when spittoons
and duels were signs of gentrification.
I want predictable. Â A 90 point
bottle of wine for $12.00. Â 13.33 cents per point.
To toss that bottle over the fence and hear a smash,
not a whine, a squeak or some other wonder,
but a crash as foreseen as
the epiphany of a fable.
Earlier I prodded dying embers.
Gave thanks to authority hanging
to the edge of composure.
Leapt from 2nd floor windows to
escape. Â Pausing just before the jump
or crossing train tracks to see telephone wires
or pull-up in a gravel skid as a train slams past.
My hemodynamics pulled up short.
The ghost inside leaning forward,
swaying back, sighing.
I longed for a small r evolution
of napping in the school hallway,
expressing inadequacies to
my teammates, having distinctly
unattractive friends instead
of petit girlfriends.
Desired a pamphlet slipped into my jeans pocket,
about vocation sacrilege.
To be a cop or plumb pipes
as an option to an m.b.a. or j.d.,
or that leads to a commuter stint of a train,
trench coat and briefcase.
Now on my rare night out
I want good service.
To hear classic rock.
Savor the security of my job.
The lack of crime in the neighborhood.
Rage breaks the surface at
disdain of turn signals, spitting on the
sidewalk. Â An early onset of crotchety,
but I still wish Iâ€™d joined the army.