Present Tense (I Am Not Resigned)

Present Tense (I Am Not Resigned)
A clock ticking, the curtains closed, sleepers all around. Soft their breath, their whimpers, and their turns. I avoid the loose board in the hall. It creaks anyway and smiles. Faded paint and spider webs, fingerprints, dust, and bits of thread. Pictures on the walls, old calendars and new, paintings, drawings, photographs. Many gifts � ashtrays, vases, bowls, and cups. A jar full of pennies. Silent cupboards. Worn out shoes. In the corner, an idle broom. I am not resigned. Each day, the streets, the streets. Voices, hands, and lips and eyes, the sound of restless feet. The world went mad long ago, but I am not resigned. From the sidewalk I turn the knob, push open the door. There is plywood on the floor. This is an old house, full of books. They greet me with their musty smell. There are books in the sink, books on the counter, books on the window sill. An inquiring face awaits, a sensible Yes? attached to hands. No I yes I do you have, yes I no I believe we do, and we tiptoe through the eerie rooms, trying not to disturb our shipmates holding onto the groaning shelves for dear life � so dear we are near everything we fear, ah, yes, here is the answer, under Z. It never occurred to me. Do you have trade credit with us? No. Every book I buy, I keep. Two quarters change? How much did I give you? Four. How strange. I thought I gave you three. I was about to give you two quarters. See? And she looked at me. Would you like me to change this for quarters? Incongruity. A puzzled smile. For some reason, I think of pineapples. A sip of coffee. . . . Yes. Still warm. I had forgotten it is here, just fourteen inches from my hand. How many minutes? Long enough for a ring to form near the rim, and for a tiny vessel to sink with Captain Bubble shouting in despair. Poor fellow. To the murky bottom known as Dregs. And yet, see how the surface shines. Hear the voices calling from the shore. Give us a hand with those barrels, boy. What are you waiting for? For the moment, and nothing more. To be, to be. *February 22, 2006* Previous Entry Next Entry Return to Songs and Letters About the Author	Many of the poems on this site are available in print editions. Main Page Author�s Note Background Notebook A Listening Thing Among the Living No Time to Cut My Hair One Hand Clapping Songs and Letters Collected Poems Early Short Stories Armenian Translations Cosmopsis Print Editions Interviews News and Reviews Highly Recommended Let�s Eat Favorite Books & Authors Useless Information Conversation E-mail & Parting Thoughts Flippantly Answered Questions
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