Symphony on Sunday, With Coffee
The world is awash in douche bags:
Hollywood and
Citigroup, smoking Sean Penn,
a CEO’s extravagant commode.
Baby-eyed little bauble asks, why so moody?
Yes, Ollie—we neglect the living:
Alice Tully Hall reopened to perfect acoustics,
my coffee’s white foam, walnuts toasting in the pan,
a cold morning, window open. Nothing Lenten.
An errant note fleeing from its staff
is a soul-splayed sigh at the library table,
and your goo-goo screech through the phone,
which, together with a thousand clicks and coughs, strum out
a day.
Remind me to not love in absentia. To return phone calls
and grow patient, to place hands on hands, on faces, in
flower beds—
anything, Ollie, to make it through whole and right.
-- Allison Contey
