Lakeside

What if we could measure peace
Reclining in a beach chair 
Breathing in the salt-tinged atmosphere 
Attenuated by a blast of snow 
Apprehending music from the seagulls 
Shuffling through angel imprints in the sand 

Tomorrow we are pierced by shrills and 
Ambulances simulating rescue 
Dealt a bill for almost dying 
Sirens screaming through the terrace 
If this is what it’s like 
To be arrested in a corpse of adolescence 
Then what might Grandma tell us on her deathbed? 
What might it be like to be a grandma
Praying on her deathbed— 
At eighteen life is terror!

I dither on the balcony 
The temperature is always right 

The other day 
They brought a painting through Fifth Avenue 
Stenciled eyes and angled shoulders 
Jutting through the styrofoam
One displayed a grimace in a primal mask 
In the background a fragmented 
Sky is jousting with a plate of grapes
Clouds contend with flower petals 
Falling through the cracks

I cycle through the portents 
Sight distorted by the sheen of fear 
I cannot remember how to smile 
Through a novel on the seaside
Placing bets on other people’s stories 
When no one might defend the likes of mine
Let me have a say—
Show me through this mutilated fantasy 
Called metropolitan creation  

Tomorrow, I might wind up in another office 
Waltzing through the mountainscapes and bayous 
I’ll conjure up the tales of adventure 
Likening the fairies, knights and dragons 
To a girl who would never care for money 
In a fantasy in my fragmented unimagination 
All the while collecting laudatory designations 
Medals made out in the name of fiscal yield 
I cannot pretend to say just what they mean 

Rothko made a string quartet before he pledged himself to colors 
I cannot imagine what it’s like to reinvent myself 
When everyone is watching 
The dissonance ascends into the ventilation shaft
If a string quartet performed a faceless motive
Can we really call it music? 
In the face of monochrome and boxes 
Melodies have been forgotten 

In another city, 
Writers, painters and musicians shuffle towards the train 
Displaced by what is duly permanent and practical 
The irony of corporate complaints!