They bobbed by without remark
through spurs and clumps of gray
that brought up somehow the teepee potion I
concocted for a party I
orchestrated in 1983 that cost me
a friend and June
rent thirty years later.
Or was it a babble that we mistook
for a flood or that spur we thought was
the missing tea?
Whirring by we felt geography offered
us commitment
when really it barely touched the epic
at hand.
Even the costumes played a dirty part
by denying us our eyes.
Thing is all the switches and false
falsettos returned
the earth to an earlier time with griffin
and cocks and Mr. Venerable.
And an earlier time is rarely not the favored time.
I have always preferred a Germany
over a Japan or a comparison over
admittance of a certain uniqueness
where uniqueness is no longer an
impossibility
all signs of the time when butter no longer works
on bread or rhymes
spoil otherwise lovely lines
that could have been unblemished
in some less unthoughtful way.
Copyright 2008
Aaron Cohen
Reprinted with Permission from Self
