A worldly young man, tainted by love,
He hears: The war drums of the Sioux.
In his mind it is all compartmentalized--
And he is back on the island
He passes a billboard that reads:
The funniest thing...
Marie has been gone for twenty-five years.
He is the old one.
This is a revised version of a poem that first appeared here four years ago.
railing against the ruling classes,
(promising a chicken in every pot
but offering a payday loan joint on every corner)
drives down a lonely road.
The snow beyond the windows impenetrable.
The wind whipping across the park.
In his mind's ear:
flute music played
flute music played
by street musicians from Chile--
portable lives in the nomadic sun.
He hears: The war drums of the Sioux.
He hears: The voice of God singing "Hey Jude."
He wonders if he can reconcile
with the Antichrist in the kitchen.
He remembers when she said "Teach me to love."
They devoured each other like
children with melting candy.
(The just washed dankness of her hair.)
He drives past a billboard that says:
WE'RE LOOKING FOR PEOPLE WITH STRETCH MARKS
In his mind it is all compartmentalized--
there are remnants of old lovers in each of these rooms.
And it's so puzzling to be a person
asking why does anything exist?
Time moves imperceptibly
until the world becomes a city full of strangers.
And he wants to be at a ski lodge
in the Grand Tetons, sitting cozy by the fire.
A young woman moves near.
She is an African girl--so lovely
it makes him sad. It is her love
for her youth, and for his,
that draws them together.
Could a dance like this go on forever?
And he passes a billboard that says:
WE'RE LOOKING FOR PEOPLE WITH B.O.
And he is back on the island
with Marie--it is where they met.
The alliance of sun and alcohol
so conducive to romance.
His imagination so fertile now,
filled with ghosts and ballerinas.
When he gets home they will talk,
like they never do. He will clear the air.
He will ask if she's having an affair.
And though he knows she is
a sovereign nation unto herself,
they must remain allies to prevent
both their worlds from collapse.
And he knows to some degree that he
will always be searching for the Holy Grail.
He glances at his watch
though he does not want to think about time--
though he does not want to think about time--
the only constant in life being the question
of whether love will be there in the morning.
The snow swirls around his car.
On the street a white-haired man
bends haltingly against the wind.
He is almost home.
He passes a billboard that reads:
WE'RE LOOKING FOR PEOPLE WHO STILL CAN'T BELIEVE THEY ATE THE WHOLE THING
He parks the car, then tramps
the few steps up to the apartment.
He inserts the key. He opens the door...
A woman's scent, fading.
The past...
the present..
a blurry haze.
the present..
a blurry haze.
The world is on fire.
The funniest thing...
And now he remembers.
Marie has been gone for twenty-five years.
And he is not the young man anymore.
He is the old one.
This is a revised version of a poem that first appeared here four years ago.
