There was a row of mansions,
Strung with Mercedes,
Far from the war zone.
There was a slum where the children lit
Wagnerian bonfires to their gods.
Near where the ladies
Curtsied to bowl,
The abyss looked back
At a shy adolescent.
There were diverse and rich beginnings
And a middle game of wonderful complexity,
But the gods of the temple
And the spirits of the hearth
Are no longer efficacious.
Look how the train is consumed by the tunnel,
Like a child sucks on spaghetti,
How the cars ascend the flyover
In a state of grace,
And a glance down Water Street
Will show the river in sunshine
And a ferry full of lives.
Out in the suburbs
The moon is available in late September
To a casual observer
And the mist rises off the golf course
Like dry ice on a stage,
Waiting for someone's entrance. You know whose.
K. M. Payne
If you've any comments on
this poem, K.M.Payne would be
pleased to hear from you.