AND SO WITH OTHER THINGS
errol miller
He is calling home the children
his children from Empire State, Rock City
Shalimar and all the other sachet-scented channels
where they play jazz no more
“towards a Golden Age”, they say
grinning vaguely with their shrouded eyes
shimmering at first love, you watch history
being made in your own backyard, you weave
a pearl chain into tomorrow, you plant
marigolds by stone markers, you take out the trash
and forget about patients suffering
across America’s hallway
sinewy dark green Autumn begins
as we have learned it will end
curling into bronze and devil-weed
there is no perfect plain, no sweet place
looking out upon someone trailing lilacs
if the script was written by the Master
why do we hurt, hurtling off to Doomsday
like a self-propelled cotton picker
never have we read the Psalms
or placed wildflowers in blue ceramic vases
without solace, shall we ever overcome
in the musty music just before dawn
a star is silhouetted to the East
New York’s rusty dorrway opening and closing
and the ferry boat from Cape Cod
humming merrily along
with its running lights extinguished
