What Of This Old World
errol miller
“What of this old world . . .”
Alice Moser Claudel
Flames, they dash the artist
against the rocks, he is not a chosen one
randomly selected to carve cheese from one hoop
there is not lace to hide, friends arrive from Oxford
cousins from Natchez, a congregation from the French Quarter
after a light supper of pork and fried potatoes
they jam into a yellow Ford convertible
crickets chirp and a trio of bandits demand
the mournful lives of the living, it
is an awesome distant charting, swatting mosquitoes
sitting in the porch swing of another time and place
listening to the cosmic sounds of night, a
tango drifts in from Paris, a waltz form downtown NYC
blues form Memphis and a ballad from WWII
a bell tolls three a.m., lamplight illuminates
the darkness that has come of course to stare
the tenants yawn and carry on, swooning
swearing that someday they’ll change their tune
having more cold beer, nervously sweating
stretching arms upward towards
a tarpaper heaven they’re not sure
they believe in, dreaming
of backpacking to muddy alluvial Zion
and finding exceptional accommodations there
sleek and modern gold and silver
and a fine assortment of salve for souls
quality workmanship and a dining room
bustling with all the comings
and goings of a restless
nomadic people.
