Nothing More?

He could write himself off.
That’s what kulchur is for.
Get in, get out, get a life,
as the wisdom of the day
has it, in hearts and spades.
Once you live in a machine,
you are the machine.
Call it life. There’s air
to stir, a change of weather
beats biblical prophecy.

I’d stop talking anywhere
else. The home is where
you stay so long you love
the way it feels around you.
You can shoot pheasant,
your hook can catch gills
by the fish, and there’s deer
menacing population,
treehouses and the like,
any home you climb into.

He is me. Who guessed it
gets to tell me why I was
that. I loved more women
than my wife, who loves
back, like they say,
the lepidopterists
of etymology, not the root
but the tree before falling
prey to the old disease
of age. Roots that remain.

(7 December 2012)

copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander