Poetry

November 9, 2016 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

poetry

Spyros Papaspyropoulos

 

By

J.K. Durick

 

 

Noon calls

 

 

We call each day around noon and say

the same things we say each time, as if

we were breaking new ground, telling

something new, as if what we did this

morning were any different than what

we did all the others, as if we could

surprise each other with something new,

a blip in the routine of our routine.

 

I call each day and think of something

to say. It’s a way to make it all bearable.

Some days I talk about the birds and

squirrels at the feeder, who was there,

how much they ate, the blue jays and

cardinals, nuthatches and sparrows,

the list isn’t long and rarely varies, but

it passes for the morning news.

 

We call each day and have for years.

It’s habit. It’s ritual. It’s part of the day

we can’t throw away. I ask and she

answers. She asks and I answer. Perhaps

we’re reading our lines too well, lines

assigned to us, lines from a well-made

play about a day and how most people

get through it and never on to other things.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sorrow

 

 

It’s what we pay, the ticket we buy to enter

the time we spend here.

 

It’s the face we return to in the mirror,

our constant friend.

 

It’s the dust of every day that never goes away,

accumulates, just turn our backs, there’s more.

 

It’s the ball the dog returns regardless of

how many times we throw it or, how far.

 

It’s the buzz, the hum we hear in back

of it all, a national pastime, an anthem of sorts.

 

It’s what we buy to lug home, paper or plastic

bags full, fresh and frozen, canned or dried,

 

still warm from baker’s oven, or  butcher’s blade,

ready to serve, and then it’s served..

 

Now here’s some more over here I almost forgot.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

J.K. Durick

J.K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Social Justice Poetry, Record, Yellow Chair Review, Madswirl, and Haikuniverse.

1 Comment

  1. P C K PREM November 09, at 10:20

    Experiential lyrics allure but speak truth one hesitates to accept readily. Very nice.

    Reply

Leave a Reply