My neighbour is waiting, impatient.
I rock slow.
He is bent double by modern chemistry,
stands in the centre of
a thousand intersections,
gathers outside the liquor store,
one bony hand stretched toward
fuel,
more fuel, just a little more fuel.
Tawdry is the word.
I rock slow.
What is there to be done about
anything?
I rock slow.
The alchemist grins,
with a profound flourish
he licks the pipettes,
moves the beaker,
adjusts the flame a touch
higher,
looks up from the mirror and
his rolled-up hundred dollar bill.
It is a toothless sun today.
I rock slow.
On the hill,
where it is all white,
there are flags.
One lazy sedan slides
after another in dark procession,
elbowing through the crowd,
trying to make me believe
this is an ordinary time.
No, it is not normal.
I rock slow.
I told the nurse
I wasn’t sure he was dead,
I have seen too many
television shows.
She laughed.
I rock slow
and my chair begins to
squeak.
Robert On The Air 