Truck

Barry Wallenstein

barrywall22@gmail.com

How Fast

One day in summer

an alien from Mars or somewhere

landed and spoke to me

from his busy mouth:

“Your hours, like rats

will keep coming

and pile high as Everest,

before that long drop down,

too fast for you to frame

or see your minutes,

their delights, as you fall.”

Without a second to think,

sweat, or parry, I reposted:

“Remove your clock

and your foul mouth too -

back to Mars;

I’ve hours enough in this world

but not a minute to spare

for your vision or venom.

The Imp Speaks

I may be too pooped to prove the point,

as we say in the lands of frolic,

but I’m still perky

and can do the do

when my turn comes around,

and can climb the banyan tree

limb by limb to where the snake and tiger

wrap themselves in the myth of the manger;

and should you call up “when you reach the top,

toss me a kiss with your fingers,”

I’ll do just that – with the spark I’ve left,

more tired by then than ever I remember.

Files

Professor Mathe, emeritus now,

bends over his files –

old files boxed in old oak –

pulls them out by their worn tabs

by ones and twos into the fire

in a hurry, with august anger,

that self-mocking grin.

“That’s that for that,” he chortles,

clearing out obsolescence;

there’s a long pause before some prospect

might swim into focus. 

“One ending need not presage another”

is another sentence he likes to repeat.

So he sits, his fingers twiddling,

straight-backed, practicing with his yo-yo

and conjuring time beyond limits

where, through the doors of the laboratory,

we hear mice singing, men chirping,

and women obeying the moon,

while singing aloud to a randy tune.