A Study in Chiaroscuro
Sometimes what feels good is the most dangerous.
Remember uncle sun staring down your décolletage.
Think the daintiest little bright mushrooms.
Whose fault is it if you won’t listen, if you
indulge too easily the heart’s clamor?
Inside a small screen, brown Bakelite exterior,
a cathode ray soul screams at each scuffle
closer to the goal line. Beyond, schoolmates
in penny loafers and knee socks shuffle down leafy
sidewalks, pressing loose leaf binders to the chest.
From the pellucid moment of this autumn morning,
you still can’t change the channel. You want to turn
blind eyes to that escapade. And to the airport angel
with her well-worn harp—could you afford to give
her absolution, say, an E-for-effort blessing?
If there were a God, do you think He would be
the red-shouldered hawk sheltering the fledgling,
or the fierce raptor seizing the gopher, greedy and slow,
clambering to its burrow? Shouldn’t the gopher be
warned by the shadow of the wings overhead?