In honor of the forty-five mph winds whipping today and the rain flying upwards, this poem appeals to me.
I’m feeling thoughtful at my impending birthday… not that I’m glum, but …feeling thoughtful. I think about my friend R. who is so… completely herself. She’s just a little older than I am, but so much more sure of herself, her style. She wears her dyed black hair and her combat boots and her tats confidently; who cares if forty is looming on the horizon? She’s already who she is… while I sometimes still feel like I’m slouching towards…? Maturity? Selfhood? Adulthood?
“What rough beast, its hour come ’round at last, slouches toward Bethlehem, waiting to be born?”
Hard Rain
After I heard It’s a Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall
played softly by an accordion quartet
through the ceiling speakers at the Springdale Shopping Mall,
I understood there’s nothing
we can’t pluck the stinger from,
nothing we can’t turn into a soft drink flavor or a t-shirt.
Even serenity can become something horrible
if you make a commercial about it
using smiling, white-haired people
quoting Thoreau to sell retirement homes
in the Everglades, where the swamp has been
drained and bulldozed into a nineteen-hole golf course
with electrified alligator barriers.
You can’t keep beating yourself up, Billy
I heard the therapist say on television
to the teenage murderer,
About all those people you killed—
You just have to be the best person you can be,
one day at a time—
and everybody in the audience claps and weeps a little,
because the level of deep feeling has been touched,
and they want to believe that
the power of Forgiveness is greater
than the power of Consequence, or History.
Dear Abby:
My father is a businessman who travels.
Each time he returns from one of his trips,
his shoes and trousers
are covered with blood-
but he never forgets to bring me a nice present;
Should I say something?
Signed, America.
I used to think I was not part of this,
that I could mind my own business and get along,
but that was just another song
that had been taught to me since birth—
whose words I was humming under my breath,
as I was walking through the Springdale Mall.
“Hard Rain” by Tony Hoagland from Hard Rain: A Chapbook. © Hollyridge Press.