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Wreck
 

Box cars off the track.
Dining car. Sleepers.
Coaches. Mail car. All
at angles to one another.
Smoke rising from some
mysterious source. And
in my mind--silence--
because this wreck is me.
Thoughts, plans, projects
all strewn randomly across
my desk. A poem, a book
of poems, relationships, duties,
responsibilities, paintings,
drawings, sketches, love itself--
all broken and twisted, bent 
out of shape in some spiritual
disaster that brings all traffic
to a stop. Nothing can move.
Seeing the destruction and confusion
is one thing. Seeing the repair crew
fixing things is another. I never
actually see that. Who does it?
But somehow or other the cars
are set back on their track.
Order returns to the desk.
Lovers holding hands looking
off into the clear distance.
I do a quick sketch of what
has happened, not why, not how.
I close the book, settle back,
order coffee and croissants,
and fully expect to enjoy
the rest of the journey.




2000 Richard Lee


 
 

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