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