The white teacup with blue veins
sits
on its round, bone-white throne
of
sorts.
The
prostitute, weary from walking,
will
decide to go home
in
two years and an odd number
of days.
The days will surely be odd.
The
Rolling Stones
have
a new album called Om.
This,
too, has not yet happened,
though
the lost chord will have its say.
The
yellow number two pencil
sits
on the blank white loose-leaf pad.
The
words will eventually come,
though
the when is not an issue.
The
midtown bus
carries
the weight of saints
to
Nirvana Street and the end of the line.
Some
say there is a street called Straight
where
people regain their sight.
Some
say there is no end to the line.
The
Rolling Stones don’t care
if
the line has an end.
St.
Paul cared too much
about
everything.
He
only wrote
on
even-numbered days.
He
was odd that way,
but
very very straight.
Ducks
ascend from the marsh
against
a canvas of purple
turning
into crimson and gold.
They’re
not sure where they’re going,
but they've regained their sight,
and the ecstasy of flight is enough
to
satisfy the urge.
It wouldn't be enough
to satisfy St. Paul.
God
saw it all
and
said that it was good,
but
not your god or my god.
It’s
the god at the end of the line,
if
there is one.
Who
can tell?
Who
can tell?
Perhaps
the teacup or the pencil,
the
ducks or the bus.
Om.
~William Hammett
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