I have thought about it
and I realize I do not care
for a pure and untrammeled nature,
a colourful rill, or oases of flamingo—
enough flim flam already—
I’m the same, you’re the same
admit it—you’re just like me—
we like mother earth bound and suppliant,
wires and concrete squeezing her ample flesh,
her back a criss cross of lanes and avenues,
boulevards and promenades.
I glory to see two cubic feet
of window box filled with geraniums
two hundred feet above the ground.
Now, nature has been reduced to
a quantifiable factor,
something you can hold in your hand,
joke about, give to your friend
for their birthday, their graduation, something simple
and insignificant.
We eat the cake.
We slice it, share it,
lay with it, crown it with sugar paste and flowers.
Now, our glistening prey lies before us—
our ancient oppressor—
who once wrung us dry and now she oozes
out of our fist, her flesh bunched about
the cords of our rope,
and we’re not letting her off lightly,
as we loop a chain about her neck;
the park is closed at night.
This is the first poem in my third book—Who Can Resist A Guy Who Laughs Like That—100% 20th century poetry, historic stuff!
Peterborough Poets 