Tis Late

by April Bernard

Of course the tall stringy woman

draped in a crocheted string-shawl

selling single red carnations

coned in newsprint the ones

she got at the cemetery

and resells with a god bless you

for a dollar that same woman

who thirty years ago

was a graduate student

in playwriting who can and will

recite “At the round earth’s

imagined corners, blow–”

announces silently amidst her louder

announcements that the experiment

some amateurs mixed of

white fizzing democracy

with smoky purple capitalism

has failed. We already knew that.

Her madness is my madness

and this is my flower in a cone

of waste paper I stole from

someone’s more authentic grief

but I will not bless you

as I have no spirit of commerce

and no returning customers

and do not as so many must

actually beg for my bread. It is another

accident of the lab explosion

that while most died and others lost legs

some of us are only vaguely queasy

at least for now

and of course mad conveniently mad

necessarily mad because

“tis late to ask for pardon” and

we were so carefully schooled

in false hope schooled

like the parrot who crooks her tongue

like a dirty finger

repeating what her flat bright eyes deny.

2 commenti

Archiviato in Gruppoesia

2 risposte a “Tis Late

  1. Grace S.

    Un’altra ladra di fiori…

    • pv2115

      — non ci avevo pensato! (Sto scrivendo una poesia in risposta a quella poesia; come ho scritto, io quella ladra di fiori la vedevo spesso per le strade di New Haven …) —

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