 | The Sunday Poem: DrivewaysMarch 25th, 2007 |
Everything dies. We all know it: whether it be the sickly sweet smell of something small somewhere under the bushes in the front yard, or the more leisurely and somehow more dramatic deaths of institutions, houses, entire countries. Baghdad has been where it is for a few thousand years and once was renowned for its greenery; no doubt it rests on the bones of itself, in ongoing self-renewal.
As you might guess, this here is a grim little poem. 
The original draft dates back to 1990.
Driveways
Under blacktop dirt and dusty gravel
Struggle against grass breaking the surface.
Emtombed squirrel bones pushed by worms travel
Lengthy loam inches under silky turf.
This empty mansion, curtained by the falling leaves,
Filled huge with the decay of the Duesenberg
Dead in the garage, stands vacuous over the scene.
Every day the hinged gate screeches twelve unheard.
Until that sly squirrel ventures forth, the latest
In his line to dare the open road, creeping over
Encrypted paths of life beneath, inching towards fate –
Until he’s caught by the maw of earth, swallowed.
The dirt and dusty gravel greet the bushy-tail they got:
And then commence exploring his motives, soul, and rot.
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