To my dear Vincent & Wisława—to you I owe for the words and form.
i.Get up here right now, little boy!Or else get beat!But down there on the ground he sitsAnd seals his lips and clasps his fists,And glares right at me bitter-eyed:“Father,” he says, “I won’t decide!I won’t decide!”
ii.And there’s the man without a face.You’ll never shine that flashlight onhim, because you know he’ll stay black,’cause you’ve calculated the timelight travels “from him to me.”What you perceive now might not bewhat he was then.
And the telephone’s still ringing—some cat’s meowing for some food.A recent lover’s left her voice,but you just aren’t in the mood.Besides, you know she’ll call youback again. When your bed is cold,you’ll call her too.
iii.A rose thrown into the room:is it a flower or a stone?I suppose even stones crumble.
i.Get up here right now, little boy!Or else get beat!But down there on the ground he sitsAnd seals his lips and clasps his fists,And glares right at me bitter-eyed:“Father,” he says, “I won’t decide!I won’t decide!”
ii.And there’s the man without a face.You’ll never shine that flashlight onhim, because you know he’ll stay black,’cause you’ve calculated the timelight travels “from him to me.”What you perceive now might not bewhat he was then.
And the telephone’s still ringing—some cat’s meowing for some food.A recent lover’s left her voice,but you just aren’t in the mood.Besides, you know she’ll call youback again. When your bed is cold,you’ll call her too.
iii.A rose thrown into the room:is it a flower or a stone?I suppose even stones crumble.
andrewmis #poems #untitled #2012
c. 2012