Suburbazi Westside Concerto
Errol Miller
but from a hopelessly normal sister
very very tired: every seventh stitch of
her body came undone, her thinking lost its edge.
There was more to do than chaffeur us around
the Art Institute or the forest of skyscrapers
called Chicago: her guilt receded, we
turned our thoughts to a drink out back
in husky Northern twilight, the blue fireflies
crossing the Potomac earlier in the day
to delightfully light our way. We came
a long way for opinions, we need
a mental lift, the minutes and hours and days
tick away like hard-time, they are symbols
of our lives drifting away under duress.
Could this have been before, I ask?
Perhaps in Atlantis where other so-called
pals let us down as low as the heavy
continent itself. Perhaps our conversation
has filled many stucco rooms. I detect
enough hostility for more than one lifetime.
Survivors usually know their limitations,
but they often ignore their boundaries, they
sometimes are directly in your path, draped
in Spanish moss and seaweed, saying
awful things, disinterested in your poetry
or your future, blocking the road ahead after
you've traveled forty days and forty nights
to rest. Sashals patience is exemplary,
and mine is wearing thin. There may
be storms tonight attending our convalescence.
Like cave-men we'll assemble for the blesssing
after food has been gathered. Then
the merry supper will begin.
