Poem in a Rearview Mirror

116 MICHAEL KELLEHER POEM IN A REARVIEW MIRROR I’m dreaming of urban renewal right now: Entropy, abandoned homes, insurance Scams, the Bronx is burning. When I recall The past I’m actually in the past. My mind Is blank. And then it was December. We Were visiting my mother at Christmas. I had nothing to read. Time, etc. I had plenty to write about in my Black marbled notebook. It was a nice day. I wanted to go back to see if there was Something there for me still. I didn’t find What I was looking for. I bought a book To learn the alphabet. For instance: “A” Is for “Agamemnon.” I find myself Wishing for retribution. On a bench In Central Park, the old guard seems to be Getting phased out, and I am now too sleepy 117 To type out the fragments. The story opens In a frigid field, the limits of which Signal a beginning or an end. A young Lover talking to himself about love. They have a word for that. Anyhow, My markings seem to indicate that I Have read this passage before. Can you tell I was educated by Jesuits? Wild profusions of scrawl take over the page. Beginning at the outer edge, at just The point at which it rubs against the world, The yellowing works its way inward, forming An aura around the words, which will themselves Succumb to this ineluctable discoloration . One day the edges will crack And the pages will biodegrade. The book Will be no more. O Rose, thou art Sick. Once I tried to write a poem by writing The opposite meaning of every line From another poem. It didn’t really work. At the time I had almost no money 118 And borrowed all of my books. Our first night We ate dinner at a little bistro. Seven feet of snow fell on the city. It very nearly drowned her quiet voice. I sometimes wonder if I’ve actually done The things I think I’ve done, known the people I think I’ve known, lived in the places I think I’ve lived, or if I’ve made it up In order to please myself (and others). We were living in our last house, the one We sold that year, if memory serves, sitting Outside on the porch, watching the children Attack each other with chestnuts, so it Must have been in early fall. We talked About the various cities in which We’d lived: New York, Vienna, Buffalo, Silverthorne, Washington, Los Angeles, Quito, and the minor vicissitudes Of living in the desert among an Unfamiliar set of desert creatures. The outcome, of course, was foretold. 119 The light from the lamp and the light from the flash Canceled one another out. I let The camera wander down to her hands, which Gestured in ways that seemed to contradict The things she said. There is, in essence, No past. What we call “past” is still extant, Lost among the amassing details of time. I was catching a nap in the lounge when I was awakened by a rumbling. In the center of the room, on top of The desk, there sat a box of candy squares. I chose a chocolate wrapped in golden foil, And I ate it, and it was delicious. I savored each bite, but then I thought I should not have eaten that one. It was The only one, and now it’s gone. Indeed, The ephemerality of thought serves Often as a kind of double for the Ephemerality of life. Now I’m Feeling sort of sad, as if I could repent Of something I have or have yet to do. ...