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V
irginia
C
apitol
C
onnections
, S
ummer
2017
20
Nexus
A boy
stands in the middle
of a road,
the land flat
in all directions.
“What to do?”
“Where to go?”
he thinks,
as a gentle wind blows,
the sunlight yellow
and warm.
Does he wait for Godot?
Does he wait for Sam Shepherd?
Does he wait for AugustWilson?
Does he let his mind go blank?
Does he use his imagination
to create a world
that will take him
enticing places?
He stands
and
waits.
Angel
A girl
lived in a house
across the road.
She was
ignored through school, nerdish.
While home from college
in Sunday School, she shared a sacrifice
she had made, and
the teacher said, “That was wonderful, and
that was what you should have done!”
The girl repeated the story over
and over again for the next hour,
clearly hoping to get the same praise and
attention she had just received.
And we think we are hurting,
not getting what we deserve or want.
Crumbling
I still want to get up
and move and do what I have
always done, but the seasons, the weather,
“Arthur,” and degenerating bones
keep me from doing so with ease.
As I struggle with this part
of my life, I must say, in so
many ways it is the best—no
major responsibilities to worry about—and
the worst—no drive or energy
to plot new maps and trajectories
on life’s speedy itinerary.
Contradictions abound, as my bones
rub, lock, and crumble into the future.
On a more profound level, I was recently in a book store reading
and found a poem by Stephen Dunn in issue Number 219 of
The Paris
Review
that said succinctly in just shy of 200 words more than anything
I have heard from the talking heads on the various political commentary
shows in the last six months. I can’t share the whole poem, but I will
share a small portion that reveals what Dunn claims is the challenge of
recording history at this moment in time, because
the imperfections of memory
would combine with the slipperiness
of documentation to produce versions
only people who need not be persuaded
could agree with.
A Compressed World
from page 19