Overread at Table 5: These Days

a journal, with "364" scratched on the cover and at the top of every page, lying open to this entry, simply titled

298.

These days are not for lovers, these
days are not for passion, romance, flowers, scented
poetry, rhyme, a soft glance a touch a look,
nothing like that any more, no,
nothing like that for these days:
these days are for listening to radio talk shows
in the mornings, hearing the torrent of
women, confessing to their affairs, "I'm a nurse, I
make good money, I've cheated on my husband
so many times in our five years of marriage I
just can't count them all,"Why don't you leave him
then?"Why would I wanna do that? I mean I love him
and all that, he just doesn't give me

what these other men give me."

These days, these days are not for sanity,
no longer any easy discourse, no longer any
passionate speeches in public houses about honor
and fraternity and justice and peace, and
representation and noble change, forward advancement
in government and thought and public morale, no
these are the days for vitriol, a christian pastor
from Dallas calling for violent revolution
if the tea party doesn't win back Congress next week,

no, these days are long past intelligence,
long past knowledge or wisdom or rational thought:
these days are for vitriol and black poison words
and blood and
the pestilence of ignorance
that eats against our
collective soul

like a cancer.

And this night, my wife tells me
not to worry about these days:
These days must pass
for what must/will happen
to pass,
these days are part of the will
of the must of
what must
be
/being, and
will have been, and then

is.

And then she goes to brush her teeth,
get herself ready for bed,

ready for me to tuck her in.



This night.


Good night.