A Mystery
Adagio Born Flower
Growing from deep misery
soil deep, adagio-born flower
what is the sound of something slowly growing?
the sky hangs like drying laundry
its drab grey heaviness mirrors my soul
as I wait for my customer to finish his litany of complaints at this company I represent
so I can shave away the excess interest off the mortgage
and live to see another cup of coffee
another beautifully bitter sunset on the train home
take another shower and maybe write one more poem
in the small dumb hope I make one of you, if only for a second, sadly smile
or feel less alone
such illusions keep the heart beating
irrationally maybe, but with stupid persistence
like I am meant to be doing what I am doing
in a world without irony or painful absurdity
in some constructive world with logic and purpose
where you can see x clearly happened because of y
where the sad, the errant, the flawed
actually learn from their mistakes
in some other world entirely, far away
from this screaming customer in my ear
this cruel predicament, these arthritic fingers
these bones that slowly wear away under pressure
far, far way where things have rhythm, and two and two make four
where squares and circles aren’t confined to textbooks
where injured and maimed birds don’t die painfully cold deaths on sea rocks
where relationships don’t explode over money disputes
where Don Quixote’s honor and dignity isn’t merely imaginary —
what, what is the sound of this strange adagio dream blooming?
this blue flower I see in the gray drab sky
out the window as this customer screams?
what is the sound of something slowly growing?
how do I still hear poetry in such ugliness?
what crazy illusion causes my heart to still beat?
© Carlo Zeno 2023
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