When I look back to the start of this sentence
and see the word “when,” I marvel
at the confident, dare I say, urgent placement
of that time-bound adverb.
I wonder what the writer planned to say
about time, a subject I am deeply interested in.
But when I pass across and down and come
to the second iteration of that word,
the flaccid representation of When with “when”
I can’t help but be disappointed.
I feel betrayed, my hope of enlightenment gently crushed.
(Those dangling quotation marks, that limp shadow, lower case.)
I doubt the writer ever really had the brilliance
to support the cavalier thrust of that initial When.
I realize again how it’s always the way.
The woman or man impeccably dressed
strides in for the interview,
copies of relevant papers in a folder
held on the arm like a baby, ready
when need arises to pull focus from the un
expected hesitation or waver in the voice
at the unprepared-for question. And I realize,
again, with just a little less force
than I realized it the last time I realized it
that every time a new configuration
of existence walks into a room,
every possible response stands ready
to meet it. And every position will be filled.
Every classroom has its genius, its beauty and its bully.
Every poem is inherent in the language.
And I wonder at last again what I wondered at last before:
When will we ever get out of this fucking cave?
and see the word “when,” I marvel
at the confident, dare I say, urgent placement
of that time-bound adverb.
I wonder what the writer planned to say
about time, a subject I am deeply interested in.
But when I pass across and down and come
to the second iteration of that word,
the flaccid representation of When with “when”
I can’t help but be disappointed.
I feel betrayed, my hope of enlightenment gently crushed.
(Those dangling quotation marks, that limp shadow, lower case.)
I doubt the writer ever really had the brilliance
to support the cavalier thrust of that initial When.
I realize again how it’s always the way.
The woman or man impeccably dressed
strides in for the interview,
copies of relevant papers in a folder
held on the arm like a baby, ready
when need arises to pull focus from the un
expected hesitation or waver in the voice
at the unprepared-for question. And I realize,
again, with just a little less force
than I realized it the last time I realized it
that every time a new configuration
of existence walks into a room,
every possible response stands ready
to meet it. And every position will be filled.
Every classroom has its genius, its beauty and its bully.
Every poem is inherent in the language.
And I wonder at last again what I wondered at last before:
When will we ever get out of this fucking cave?
