The pans are cooling on the stove;
curtains flutter in the breeze.
The night is lovely,
the streets are quiet,
we will not ponder the disease.
The champagne boxes are all emptied
you may sit on them, if you please,
and together we may wonder,
the depth and sweetness of our dreams.
The dogs are waiting patiently for
any hand to feed;
the birds line up in neat little galleries;
the cats bob their heads – good day, good day –
as they saunter the streets in
their white-glove affairs.
We see the human in them,
we think, though perhaps,
humans are simple and
quite polite animals.
is this hate or
an interruption of the lungs,
is this a feeling or
a portent of death;
is this what I am
when no-one is looking;
is this what I seek
when all else has been found?
The perfect day will never arrive –
always some issue,
some delayed bus or
the best we can do is admire it
like brushstrokes caked into the painting –
does that not add something,
make it something more than ideal –
The me in the mirror is truest of all,
seen from without –
all image, no substance,
a stranger in shape,
familiar yet backwards,
and yet if I focus
and contort my thought,
I can imagine this stranger
Have all the Choirs learned to code
and do the saved souls of sinners spend their ever-summer
learning pickleball and piano,
reading the books of living men and
laughing at how good the future is,
how hard life was;
have the Saints any hobbies?
Experimental painting, maybe,
or sculpture, clay-work,
the growing of edible mushrooms,
small or large gardens where even the weeds luxuriate in bloomings –
and if not, eternity must be
a mighty long emptiness.