Speak, O capricious ones, and lend a hand To this sad wretch, who cannot understand Why he has been abandoned and ignored, Advertisements
It has been stamped with dispassionate blue ink, Signifying its future lack of suitability to sit on the shelves, Having been elbowed aside by this and that year’s thing
It was not, by any means, a loss of faith; Indeed, her devotion was a boundless, unfettered thing Beyond proscription, beyond rote chant and catechism, And what she found as a novitiate
She is the living embodiment of the cliché, The song where the male sub-lead Returns from some second shift, some third drink
It is not, of course, a literal longing An actual yearning for some terra firma unlike our own (The vistas promised her elders In the pages of children’s science encyclopedias,
We’d dallied with bright shining dreams, of course; Gatsby-esque timetables and solemn pacts Made with ourselves, come undone with brute force.
The acquisition of a son With an adequate corporeality, albeit with certain caveats, Certain limitations in terms of progeny and posterity, Had awaken something in the old man,