Currency
The
present isn’t what it used to be
even
a few years ago. For one thing,
I
need someone younger to play with me,
someone
who sprints into each day
as
if there were a trophy at the end of it,
who
hasn’t yet given up on the outside chance
that
an old coat in the closet
will
have money in one of its pockets.
Silly
kid, down on his knees in love,
believing
in that, too —
I
almost remember how it felt,
the
true, sweet ache of it,
like
the scent of gardenia,
like
the worn out river
stippled
and redeemed by headlights
of
the lovers’ cars.
Impossible
to unknow my way
back
to his ignorance,
to
a past he long ago abandoned
to
be here now, changed by the trip,
inhabiting
this altered present
but
doing his best to find
a
forgotten coin, something
to
make the moment shine.
Applied Science
Because
three left turns make a right,
and
the way down is the way up,
the
way in the way out,
but
most of all because
the
beginning is the end,
where
we are going looks
remarkably
like where we’ve been,
ourselves
growing small
headed
out for the horizon,
looming
large coming back,
smug
with solutions
for
such easy puzzles,
devising
a machine to settle everything,
immense
in our littleness,
tinkering
with the world.
Neal Bowers is the author of four books of
poetry: The Golf Ball
Diver, New Rivers Press, 1983, Lost in the Heartland, Cedar Creek
Press, 1990; Night Vision, BkMk
Press 1992; Out of the South, Louisiana State University Press, 2002.
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