~ for Drew
A train of thought might begin with overheard
conversation— for instance, on the next thing
in a line of recent decisions over which we
were not consulted, though these will have
a bearing on everything we're expected to do.
Then a colleague posts about getting to this
point in the semester and how it's been a journey
as it's always been, but somehow, each time gets
more lackluster. Lackluster, meaning a lack of shine,
a surface polished only by thoughtless repetition,
a dulling from slipshod use rather than intention.
Jaques uses the word in "All the World's a Stage,"
the same play that gave us gems like Sweet
are the uses of adversity. A fool's wisdom,
perhaps. And so he plays his part. To look
upon the hour as mere trial, the next car
on the train as just another clone of this one—
wheels on the rails and rumbling into the dingy
station because there's a schedule, and schedules
must be met or someone pays the price.
Now we toil in halls grown airless as balloons
from which the last bit of helium has been
extracted for a profit we'll never see.
Professing beauty and humanity in a time
distracted by speed and efficiency, stubbornly
we practice our own fools' wisdom, sit shoulder
to shoulder in a train lurching forward, ever forward.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
