The Repairs

The man with aquamarine eyes 
and a slim suit who’s left 
at the train station halfway 
through the book to the surprise 
of everyone, looks up in confusion 
at pigeons flitting amongst 
the spindled trusses because 
what else is one to do 
and you wonder if the writer 
had made a false start 
he continued to believe in or 
if he thought everything 
must be ridden to its end 
as a matter of principle 
until the principle collapses 
upon itself under the energy 
of all that built-up want. 

She does not love you anymore 
yet she is the reason you are here. 
Once her requited love 
no longer required you 
it was time to quit, but you 
bought roses anyway. Twice. 
If you wait a few moments, 
the platform will fill with families, 
men and women in hats 
returning from work, tourists, a girl 
walking a poodle, all swirling 
about you toward the exit 
where their excitement pulls 
your thoughts out into the city
and far beyond.

On your own you arrived, somehow, here, 
on the edge of the smaller ocean 
with a suitcase in hand, standing 
in the water with your good shoes on,
an umbrella tumbling down 
the beach making the whole scene 
that much sadder than it needs to be,
pathetic, truly silly. Was it a song 
about love or the need for 
an atmosphere swept calm
of voices but your own 
and the melancholy of men 
in white pants crossing the long 
empty spaces of golf courses 
at dusk talking to themselves, mostly? 
All the failures calendared in advance 
in books that look official. 
How the future grows younger, 
until one day it won’t even dawn 
on you. And you’ll wake just to lie 
down again, to get a little more comfortable, 
suddenly finding pleasure 
in the shape of a key or 
in a pyramid of sugar cubes.
This would be a good year to garden, 
some perennials, maybe spotted flowers.
This would be a good day 
to see if you still float. The light 
is good, the wind has died down.

A circle of boys tossing 
a yellow beachball on a roof, 
and for a second you’re 
on the Italian seashore 
wearing shorts in 1970-something, 
but who are these adults around you. 
A lost life? In the buildings 
behind you, surely couples 
are making dinner and couples 
are having sex on tatami mats 
in rooms with rice-paper walls 
where everyone is silhouetted, 
a little closer to death.
A hand slips out to snip basil 
in the window-box, but the face 
is unseen. Perhaps the present 
wasn’t supposed to last forever, 
that had not been factored in, 
and now what, relax 
before the spectacle of the day?
A cat stranded on the motel’s 
fire escape sounds an alarm. 
It’s so late, it’s early 
morning. The shuffleboard 
courts are full. The year has passed 
its date of ripeness. Soon it will 
come around again.