Ideology Makes Me Tired

sometimes political

ideologies suggest to me

train stations for which

someone forgot to build

tracks. they look

impressive, well

designed, with angles

and edges. fun

to wander around in.

but they seem to lead

only to themselves.

do I need an ideology

to tell me society

needs to get somewhere?

get to a place

where it doesn't just 

pretend to care

but cares well for

people who need food

shelter water work sleep?

sometimes political

ideologies seem intent

on fulfilling their theories,

regardless of practical failure

or turns to violent authority

pledged madly to

shibboleths of theory. 

in place of debating,

I'm going to help make

someone not hungry today.

I think I'll add in some

nice clean clothes.

that's it that's all.

hans ostrom 2021

Gull Amongst the Crows

 the gull's a white viceroy

in pink rubbery footwear,

strolling stiffly

amongst a dozen crows

outfitted in workaday black.

they respect the gull's

size but not its authority.

an improvised contest

for useful slimy stinking

morsels sauteed 

in city refuse juice ensues.

the crows of course caw-cuss,

bounce on wire-feet,

wield their gleaming beaks.

gull says nothing,

gobbles great pieces

of anything likely 

to nourish. and finally

rolls out a rising shriek,

a fantastic prophetic scream,

an explosive ode to life. 

hans ostrom 2021

Yes We Saw the Sea Again

upon further refraction

that piece of golden

sea we saw smeared

itself with a pink sheen.

language, our tour

guide, narrated

the event with syllables

marinated in purples,

blues, yellows, grays.

as such, the sighting,

a constant birthing

of scene, seemed all

the more profound for

having nothing to do

with our seeing. still,

sacredly we saw the sea.

hans ostrom 2021

Nobody Beats Tacoma

 (reposting one from a while back)

Here's how it works: Beginning as North 27th Street,

North 21st Street just gets its confidence up

when North I Street slugs it and takes over,

only to be vaporized by South Yakima Avenue,

which morphs into something called Thomson.

The streets of Tacoma are so mean they're

mean to each other. Nobody beats Tacoma. Nobody.

Seattle has forever misread the meaning of Point

Defiance. It's not a park or a peninsula,

or a place to play dress-up on your bike.

It is a destined middle finger pointed

vaguely north. Put a penny

on the railroad track down by the port,

and you might well summon Guy Fawkes,

Richard Brautigan, a Chinese laborer,

or a skeptical Puyallup woman, pre-contact.

Whoever it is will take your penny

and invest it in a cloud-cone

hovering above Rainier like the saucers

Kenneth Arnold saw, 24 June,

1947. About the time

you think you have Tacoma solved,

you find yourself on a suspension-bridge,

with a dog, and the bridge starts

writhing like a boa constrictor. Then

it flaps and twists, snapping itself

free from blueprints, taking a dive

like a punch-drunk stevedore

trying to earn a buck at a smoker

in 1931. The dog lives. If you remind

the tattooed woman at the drive-in

that you ordered everything on your

burger, she will tell you, without

animus, "That is everything."

Nobody beats Tacoma. You have

to understand: Tacoma is more

than a grit city that keeps its

bourgeoisie on a leash like a pit bull.

Tacoma is a sense of humor.

Once you get that, it may take decades,

you'll understand everything. I

mean, really, after embedding

yourself in a group of eccentrics

at the Parkway, the Acme, or

the Goldfish Redux taverns, you'll see

the folly in naming streets

and other ambitions. You'll realize

you are Nobody, the only person

ever to beat Tacoma. Good night.

© a month ago    cities • aliens   

"Clarksdale," by Billy B.

Video: Song about Clarksdale, Mississippi, and the blues. Music composed by Billy B, song performed by Billy B. Lyrics by Hans Ostrom. Video by Dan Callnon.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fKK_FoHXuFs

Toad Ode

toads I know

like dry heat,

look like pebbled
fists of meat.

they spit
and stink like
grizzled men on a
sizzling street.

they're not friendly
like frogs.
avoid bogs.
don't sing. thing

is, every memo
a toad sends
recommends leaving
toads alone. so

i've done so.
oh, I might say
hello as I go
on my way.

that's most,
that's all. toads
I know, they kind
of hop-crawl.

hans ostrom 2021

Truck Driver's Aubade

 Listen: sunrise stirs bugs

in dry grass. The long

whine of a steel guitar

curves into a thin blue highway.

This peace is easy to take, I'll tell you.

We kiss, kick off covers

light as dead butterflies,

and grab each other, laughing.

Your radio drops out a three-chord,

two-minute-fifty song,

too much like other songs,

just like those tin napkin

and sugar dispensers

that look alike always alike

on sticky plastic countertops 

at all them truck strops, 

where I’ll rest elbows,

the thick roar of sixteen

tires still in my ears. Darling,

if I chat up a waitress 

while she's filling my 

Thermos with coffee,

know it's only out of

habit and good manners. 

You know my heart growls

like a diesel for you when

dawn spills across the hood

of the Peterbilt, and I think

ahead to gearing down on

the grade sloping into

your place here where 

the creek sings out back. 

circa 1987/2021

Apples of the Ear

[revised]

[one of the great moments in jazz history]

The apple doesn't fall far

from the tree except in quantum summer

when Newton's head doesn't/does

exist and Atom & Eve

know what they don't know, 

a good first step

into the wormhole of Paul

Gonsalvez's "Diminuendo/

Crescendo'" 27 tenor sax 

chorus solos, 1956, in that

momentary eternity

wherein all the tightly knit

notes of Ellington's orchestra

became/become perfectly tart-sweet

apples in a God's-ear of time.

A Night of Bluegrass

 [revised]

Go on and cut the top off-a that mountain

to get your coal, Mr. High Pockets. You

can't cut that high-pitched wail out of the air

where the mountain was

and shall ever be, in God's eyes.

And all them strings get picked and strummed,

chorded and teased, til here comes a

tightly braided tune, careful and true,

like the long gray hair

of a matriarch reading her Bible in blue

moonlight, rocking and praying She's

as heart-broken and reconciled as a ballad

about some young'ns gone too soon. Music

of the hills distills sadness, strains it

through an upright tradition

that Nashville goddamn tried to ruin.

But could not. And will not. 

The Old Cloud Con

 [revised]

A "magician" came to town.

He explained what information was--

different, he said, from our tools,
animals, and plants. He asked

where we kept our information.
The usual places, we said:
Boxes, pockets, minds.
Oh, he said, give it to me,

and for a fee, I'll keep it
in a cloud for you!
In a cloud? we asked.
Yes, in a cloud, he said,

and for a fee! For me! We 
then kept the "magician" under 
guard for a while after
that exchange because

he was so obviously a
scoundrel. Soon we let
him go, unharmed.
We gave him information
A "magician" came to town.
He explained what information was--
different, he said, from our tools,
animals, and plants. He asked

where we kept our information.
The usual places, we said:
Boxes, pockets, minds.
Oh, he said, give it to me,

and for a fee, I'll keep it
in a cloud for you!
In a cloud? we asked.
Yes, in a cloud, he said,

but for a fee! We then
kept the "magician" under 
guard for a while after
that exchange because

he was so obviously a
scoundrel. Soon we let
him go, unharmed.
We gave him information
about where to travel
from here and 
options for 
a new career, 

in a cloud. 

Almost Blue in Chicago

Between Michigan and State,

she was caught without a coat

among wrought-iron intricacies

of histories.  Her sheer blouse

panicked in cold air.  She was

going somewhere.  Her schedule

showed a route of escape.  Not more

than a block from State

and Michigan, she again seized

a grip on fate, held on, got back

in the swing of the thing, yes,

back in the sway of her days.

hans ostrom circa 1990/2021

seagull in time

seagull high

up on a pole

sees dawn come 

early enough 

today to face

fully, light

dyeing white

feathers pink.

to me, it's still

astounding how

this whirling

sphere (which we

don't own) 

sidles so slowly

up to its local

fireball this

time of year,

this time of 

time. I itch

to dig in muddy

soil, the tip

of my old

shovel worn

into a concave

crescent line. 

Silver Valley Vision

 

this river swims in time.  this sky

flies through emptiness.  we live

forever every moment as love

falls into people.  fuel consumes

fire, and rain drinks Earth.  I saw

a thousand angels moving through

a silver valley.  low clouds

picked them up, changed them

into snow, conveyed them over

mountains, let them go. oh, let them go.

hans ostrom circa 1995/revised 2021

 

Silver Boat, Golden Sea

hey stray dog: nobody's

going to let you in.

though human, you 

own a sad canine karma.

hope will only mock you

later. turn back to streets,

lots, woods, or a one-room

apartment. enjoy pungence

and meals for one. watch

the moon get stuck 

in leafless branches. dream

you're captain of a silver

boat upon a golden sea,

a faithful friend at your side. 

hans ostrom 2021

Snapshot

 [second version]

[1860 HERSCHEL in Photogr. News 11 May 13 The possibility of taking a photograph, as it were by a snap-shotemof securing a picture in a tenth of a second of time.]
(Quoted from the Oxford English Dictionary online)


Snapshot

By any means, steal an image,
mark an instant's interplay between
light and facial shape. Shuffle it
off to memorabilia, through which
someone may rummage some day
not soon, in boxes or in Cloud.

Whoever it is will wonder
whose image got swiped
back here, where at the gathering
we think we know who's here, what
they're wearing, what they show. So
yes, of course, seize a sample
the flow, stabilize it in one of
the ways we know. Store it, for it
may be of interest one day, could be.

hans ostrom 2014/2021

Watching Bach Played

 [second version]

Each string ensemble player

leaned, turned, and swayed

in chairs differently as

they played. The women's

backs looked strong in gowns.

The men's feet in black shoes

stayed fixed to the floor.

Sometimes violin-bows poked

straight up as if reach for unseen

clouds just above the players'

heads. Portly cellos had to be

held up like friendly drunks.

They mumbled low genial

gratitude. One man stood

above the players, waving

his arms and a stick as if

to try to get someone's

attention. The violinists

may have glanced at him,

I don't know, but mostly

they cuddled their polished

wooden instruments, and

let their bodies feel the music,

and let us feel the vibrations

that they herded in the hall. 

hans ostrom 2015/2021

Attempts Become Gestures

[second version]

the man wearing a thin sweatshirt

and no hat stands at an uncovered

bus stop in freezing rain. he isn't me.

he's trying to light a cigarette. his

attempt becomes a gesture--

ludicrous but noble, less than

tragic but not bad at all.

he's inside whatever being alive

is for him, and i'm inside what

being alive is to me. i see him

from a warm place out of the weather.

if i were like jesus i'd go to the

man and perform a miracle--

like getting that cigarette lit,

or giving him money,

or giving him my parka, or

embracing him. he might

like all of that. except for

the embrace. he might

bite my nose off for that.

i don't do any of these things,

because it's easier not to,

and it's acceptable that i

think i'm not his keeper.

at moments like these, i

think of Bukowski,

who--i gather from his

words, i never knew

the man--thought like

jesus sometimes, i mean

with a similar toughness.

tough on everybody--

including, let's say especially,

the reflective, ignoble fuckers in

warm parkas out of the

weather.

Cinema Complex

 [second version]

This complex isn't simple: boxes

within boxes within boxes. Figures

stroll across a neon-glossy floor

toward dark caves, bathrooms, or

sugar and salt: they and I

are already dead--like people

photographed by cinema in 1939.

And we've been replaced by others

who move about here just as we do,

we did. Maybe one of them

is morbid, at least fatalistic,

and feels for a moment that time

has already departed, leaving

behind only ribbons of  light

that spool images 

flickering imperceptibly

on screens

and kernels of corn explode

into tiny thunderheads. Before

going into the movie, I think

this scene I've been in

may have been the better movie.

Toes

 [second version]

They're pudgy, failed claws,

private nubs that often

go public. We encase them

like jewels, divas, or prisoners, 

let them out for fresh air

only sometimes. The curling

of toes, one knows, is 

a practice that migrated

from branched peoples

hanging around long ago.

When people say, "Kick up

your heels," they seem

to mean nothing.

Heel/toes, heel toes:

onward the masses walk hard

on hard urban surfaces.

It's the economy, stupid.

Our dogs is tired,

our gods are remote,

this is the greatest age

of toenail paint, 

and I am the owner 

of a hammer toe,

a hard name for a

soft undertow. 

hans ostrom 2015/2021

Aristotle on Euboea

an old man,

interested in the world.

a teacher. 

kicked out of Athens

by Alexander:

not so great. oh, well.

ignorance drags

tyrants to Hell.

a fine island.

water. light on water.

dry hills, birds in air,

students who care.

who cared enough to

follow an old man here.

good memories of quibbles

with Plato,

whom the con of idealism

hustled. like Socrates,

he looked too often

for reasons not to know. 

drink the hemlock?

highly impractical. 

death's efficient enough

as it is. better to live,

if only a year more.

living is learning,

a chance to know more

until you know death.

Chalcis is a fine town

on this island named

after a nymph. 

it smells better than Athens.

round and round goes

the dance of perception,

the music of the spheres.

heartbeats in ears. 

It's Up to Us

it's up to us,

people who in this age

are seen as "white,"

although in truth

we're all just a mix like everyone

of human genetic soup; 

it's up to us

to erode White Supremacy,

the great World Lie,

the longest American 

evil, until it 

breaks, dissolves

into dust

and final impotence. 

it's up to us, 

you know. why?

because we have the influence,

each

in our own small spheres;

because we can,

we must. 

oh, yes, I know,

most of us must serve

so many duties.

most of us are weary.

that's all right. 

don't let 

the distractions,

excuses, 

rationalizations,

confuse you til you

do nothing. 

just

do what you can

to advance the erosion.

use your influence

if you can,

when you can,

how you can.

and you can. 

it's up to us, you know. 

How Are You Enjoying the Dictatorship?

 (first posted January 27, 2017)

Oh look America

at what White Supremacy

made you do again.

Fear of change, fear

of knowledge, too. Oh,

look, White men at what

never growing up

has set loose like a

plague. Oh, look,

women, at what

White men want to to

to your body

citing some whacked-

out version of some

scripture. 

Still flying that

Confederate flag

and hanging nooses?

Still really proud

of slavery and Jim Crow? 

Nice way to show

you don't know 

right from wrong. 

Oh, look America

at what snorting

celebrity will get you. 

A bloated faux billionaire

racist on top means

you've hit bottom. Again. 

Where the dictator's 

people will stomp you,

just their way of thanking

you for your support. 

Idiosynchronized

People we see once: flood of faces, coats,

collars--on avenues and plazas,  in markets, 

theatres, bars, banks, hospitals.  A bent

shape hoeing weeds: one of us saw it once

one place from a train: This

is an example but only of itself.  Its

singularity can’t be transposed.  Imagine

you remember the person who interested you

terribly in that café that morning that city.

Sure it happened, but you don’t remember

because once was not enough.  People we

see once compose our lives.  Forgetting

them (we must), we lose wide arenas

of the lived.   Even ghosts return, but not

the vast mass of once-only-noticed

who compose medium and matrix

of our one time here.  We are adjacent and

circumstantial to strangers, one jostle

of flux away from knowing next to everything

about their lives.  The river of moments takes

a different channel; the one moment becomes nothing now.

The once-only appear, then appear to go 

to an Elsewhere that defines us.  They go on

to get to know who they get to know.

Their lives are theoretically real to us, like

subatomic particles.  To them their lives

are practically real to them.   From their

view, ours are not.  We know they were there,

vivid strangers, because they always are, 

every day.  Like a wreath floating 

 on the ocean, memory marks a space 

abandoned.   In large measure life is

recall of spaces occupied.  History

consists of someone who insists on being

remembered, someone who insists on 

remembering, combinations of both.  Familiarity 

and routine join to vie methodically; they

capture places in recall.  Vivid strangers are

incidentally crucial, indigenous to a

present moment that is like a mist

over a meadow, rising, evaporating 

just when we arrive, past as we are present.

at the mansion

my candelabras are clandestine.

they hang from whining beams

in this derelict mansion, ready

for their close-ups, Mr. DeMille.

sometime you must visit.

we’ll waltz a bit like half-

cracked aristocrats, apres

Revolution, sans portfolio.

sagging splendor. tawdry times.

we'll alert the neighbors

about a  shotgun marriage

of sweat and perfume, the

pretensions and the practicality

of self-taught lunacy, all decked

out in tuxedos and gowns bought

at  flea markets.  RSVP, or not. 

circa 1994/2021

"August 1968," by W.H. Auden

 Reading/video of Auden's short reaction to the USSR's/Warsaw Pact's invasion of Czechoslovakia:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FCH-jfL5oMs

Closing Time

tonight my cabaret of fears

glowed and hummed.

a band played anxiously in

sharp keys.  the bartender

claimed not to have seen

Death around lately. but

she spoke she turned away

to polish a glass.

hans ostrom 

circa 1994/2021

Pulp Mill, Commencement Bay

  (Tacoma, Washington)

 the mill on the bay

processes night.

 

an engineered

beast, it never inhales.

 

its smoke-steam is white

and slow like dream clouds.

 

its mansion of pipes

is lit up like a festival.

 

the mill manufactures

livings and my sleep.

circa 2005/2021

hans ostrom

 

The Son She Never Had

 

The son she never had visits her

one night.  He’s grown, a man

with stories to tell and scars,

 big knuckles.  At the table under

yellow light, she asks what it was

like to be a son without a mother.

 “Oh, I had a mother,” he says.

The lines on his face are rivers

of her dreams.  “She just wasn’t you.”

 He takes her hand and leads her

past fact to worn brown carpet

of the “family” room.  They dance.

 She lays her head on his chest.

Above her is the ceiling where

her husband’s cigar-smoke settled.

 Later they sit in the two big chairs.

“Do me a favor,” she asks, “and walk out

the door.  I want to know

 your manner of leaving.”  He

obliges, a good son.  Silence rushes back

into the house like winter air.

 On the porch she tells herself

he would have had such knuckles

and danced with her that way.

 He would have traveled far but come back.

In a factory he would have paused some

days in machinery roar and thought of her.

circa 1989/2021

 

The Leopard and the City

 “A leopard shall watch over their cities.”

 --Jeremiah 5:6

Rain fell out of the cloud of time.

It made no argument.  Droplets

blotched a blond meadow.  Out

of the pattern a leopard arose.

Its eyes reflected the cloud of time.

An old small city is my soul,

such as it is.  The leopard watches

over it, her breathing and her heartbeat

syncopated.  I do not visit there as often

as I should: Work is elsewhere

in factory-towns of will.  When

the small city seems to call, I take

a road curved round a cliff.  Up there

sits the leopard.  The ledge is blue.

Arrived, I seek a sanguine plaza.  People

I have tried to be loiter there.  They slouch

and lean and gab.  They know me well.

Out of the rain in a baked café,

we share a meal.  We speak of the leopard,

become one person in the cloud of time.

hans ostrom circa 1990/2021

forgotten dream

you woke up

and the dream

floated out of
mind like pollen
patterns on a
spring stream

hans ostrom 2021

Spinoza

 (Baruch de Spinoza, 1632-1677)

there in the Hague

Spinoza sat, grinding

lenses, making a living

from clarity.

Jews expelled him,

Christians menaced 

him, just because

he wrote that

God was the sum 

of all parts--the 

only complete

being and the property

of no religion

but only of Godself.

it came as cold 

news. worse,

it made

and makes

a certain amount

of sense.

"Smiling Poem"

 Reading/video of some short light verse for a heavy wet day in the Pacific Northwest:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KTlXH-v5wsA

Cup

 I am contained

in the cup of me

originally,

it's claimed, we came

from the sea.

actually,

what emerged were versions

of things that could

turn into us. nonetheless,

here I am, a full

cup of me,

a compound composed

of me, salt

water modified

elaborated, prorated, 

not quite yet

evaporated;

self-contemplated.

Hiram Reports from His Adventure

 In dark vegetation I couldn’t see

my body or hear thoughts.  Fevers

rotted memory.  Maggots flourished

and founded a parliament.

I hung in delirium, a sack

of neural bits and pieces.  Birds in

endless green hooted, screamed.

I was transported to a desert that

cooked off confusion, revealing 

basic elements of who allegedly

I’d been.  My body became obvious

once more, eating dry food and

drinking wet water. I worked

in a factory of noon—my job to attach

objects to their shadows.  Memories

arrived, stumbling like scattered

soldiers returning across sand,

descending from red rim-rock,

shedding uniforms, looking for

lovers and work. 

Lost

don’t go by what I say

go by how the map reads

I must have lost our way

the map is where it leads

also, I’m not your guide

in fact I don’t know why

we’re walking side by side

or who let out that cry

Paying Respects

We found he iron garden-gate

linked to white pickets

hard and wondrous

to open. Ornamentation dated it.

Up the walkway then,

into her stifling house,

where she sat in her purple

dress and parchment skin,

saying what she thought

her whole life had taught

her. Almost too old to pity,

she was too austere to embrace.

The voice seemed to come

from years ago.

Our minds assured us

we would never grow

that weird if ever we

grew that old. Our minds

were confident we could

open the gate again, get

away. It stood out there

in advanced darkness. Inside,

the seconds of her clanking clock

ate the minutes of our patience.

The Ride, the Badge

Tonight my memory is

a palomino exuberantly hooved

in an alpine meadow.

I ride the horse bareback

and fall off, replacing air

in lungs with fear,

pushing fear out then inhaling

again. I hold out

a sugar-cube on a flat palm

for my memory,

which nuzzles with a soft

gray mouth, nips

the cube, leaves lovely

equine slobber. The tail flicks out

at a fat fly, makes broom sounds.

Sunlight, the old sheriff, jumps

up on my memory,

and everything goes golden,

gathers

into a bright badge of

summer.

Evening Studies

 What I learned about evening

included flapping bats silhouetted

against last light, mosquitoes

stuck to skin, a human need for

liquor to lead one into night.

Evening reduced disappointment

into sour essences affecting flavor

of suppers, brightness of eyes,

ligaments of love.  I learned

the ambience of graveyards becomes

buoyant  at dusk:  Ghosts get

in a good mood, old oaks cool down,

words on headstones recede.  In

twilight I studied attitudes of awe

toward beautiful young women.

Gratefully, I took in breezes

of their perfumes, watched

the care with which they walked

in a shadowless hour.

© right now    twilight   

Squirrels

I’ve watched squirrels my whole life.  They

inhabit a zone just outside domesticity. Are

diplomatically wild.  They worry and stare,

behaviors of which I approve.  They horde

forgetfully, gorge daintily.  Sometimes

they just stop.  And fall asleep, mid-day,

on a limb or a fence post.  Squirrel

entropy. Sometimes frenzy

seizes them—something to do

with sex.  Or fleas? —Mad bursts of wants

a frozen pose arrests.  Squirrels

are not everything I had hoped wilderness

to be.  They are though everything

I would want squirrels to be, and

slightly more, for there’s always 

one more surprise set to leap

out of squirrel-evolution and seize

the nut, bury it, and pat fresh

soil over the nut-grave.  And run away!

Fingernail Clippers

 [new version]

A sea creature of lore owned

a gigantic, snub-nosed head

from which a body tapered

shyly. Digital blacksmiths hammer

out our steel replicas.

Lever and fulcrum and

paired toothless blades:

the spare architecture

of a specialized tool.

Owing to his mania,

the reclusive billionaire

eschewed clippers and let

his fingernails accrue

like stalactites. They clicked

like scurrying roaches

when he played cards.

Crows and monkeys groom

each other, picking bugs

from feathers and fur. A calm

comes over them as they pick

and peck. Thinking of them,

I clip a thumbnail--hiding,

like them, from hunger and

fear for a moment, attending

quietly to a bodily chore,

pressing a lever like Archimedes,

watching slivers of keratin

fall away like dreams.

thing poem © right now    fingernail • clipper

Sandwich

Sometimes you need a sandwich,

especially when it's not all you need.

Every culture calls it something

else. It's bread and something else.

Sometimes you need dry and warm.

Or you need to rationalize failure

or to read about Sufism. Sometimes

you need to be touched, seen, heard. 

But's that's all beside the point,

isn't it? when you're stomach 

and your gums ache from 

hunger. I'm making sandwiches

today. To be given to the homeless.

I see them beside the street 

where I drop off the sandwiches. 

They live in tents. Sleep on 

grass. In the wealthiest empire

ever to exist. Whatever. They

can't eat outrage. It's the sandwich

that matters, sitting there on a 

plate, a plank, or your lap. 

The distributors want bread,

bologna, cheese, and mustard.

Never mayonnaise. Someone

I'll never know lifts the sandwich,

opens their mouth, chomps,

tastes, chews, swallows. Feels

just a little bit better. I hope. 

What do I know? Nothing. I know

sometimes I've needed a sandwich.

To get from one moment

to the next. And some water. 

And a place to sleep. And sleep.

But it starts with a sandwich.

Something very particular

in the exact place you are

is what you need. What I need.

Some bread and something else.

To eat. To eat. To eat. 

From a Diary of the Plague Year (20)

Masked, we stand like sentries.

In line six feet apart at

our local post office. 

At the counter, postal

clerks query clients, shuffle

forms, tease computer

screens, and explain.

And explain. Their knowledge

and patience are gnostic.

They meet miffed 

remarks with measured

words, weighing them

like a package bound

for anywhere on the planet.

Older ones of us

in line may see 

the Post Office as sacred.

May have lived on rural

routes or in micro-towns.

The world got in touch

with us through the Post

Office. Some may have

dabbled secretly in 

philately. Or corresponded

with St. Nick. Or ordered

a baseball glove or a doll

from a catalogue as thick

as an oak stump. We 

do not know why a crowd

in power wants to wreck

this secular temple. Weary,

always mocked, the post office

is, like a library or a free

clinic, the kind of institution

that saves civilization, 

as drops of rain eventually

save crops. Which is why,

in line and masked, holding

boxes and plump 

envelopes, we accept

the wait

with everyday grace.