IV A Propos

The rain pelts us�" plasters our tattered work clothes

to our bodies like aged drywall sags into the corners

of a wet dumpster; yet we race the inevitable, hauling

trashcans of broken ceiling and wall, two men each can,

over the sides of the rusted five-yarder, as if the faster

we move, the less likely the damp is to reach our skin.

 

But I know, we shouldn’t take ourselves seriously anymore;

not now, that from the vantage point of Saturn, our Earth

is a pixel, a pale blue dot in a vast encompassing cosmos,

from which there is no sign of us, of our machines, of the damage

we’ve done to the surface. So I slow down, let my thoughts

 

creep to my feet like ten pound sledge hammers. I notice

the rain freeze some distance before it pummels the ground

and disappears forever and I wish it hit like pennies slam concrete

from the top of the Empire State building; like my grandfather

fell into the glass coffee table after his last heart attack;

like my words spit toska onto lineless paper. 

 

But we just run out of dry fabric for the rain to soak, out of space to pour

any more gutted contents of the houses we tear apart, and we plain

quit giving a damn. So I stand here, head tilted up and pretend.