NPR News

'Vintage'

NPR | By Dean Young

Published May 16, 2011 at 3:53 PM EDT

Because I will die soon, I fall asleep
during the lecture on the ongoing
emergency. Because they will die soon,
the young couple has another baby.
She's not out yet but it's late enough
to see her struggle like a dancer
in a big bubble. Because the puppy
will die soon, he learns not to pee
on the carpet. The nuisance of forget-me
flowers weed-whipped in the roaring late
summer, the mold perfect on the grapes
for zinfandel because of late rains.
It rains on the fireworks factory,
rains on the sea, the empires under
the sea, siege machines collapsed in sand,
people reading Proust, every word,
parallel parking, nudge forward, nudge
reverse but somehow no alarm. Some blues singer
plays back what he's just sung, tries again,
hungrier. A long-sequestered love
leaks out in the juicy circumstances
of an accident. She sends another letter
with an alternate destination, a meadow
instead of city, goldfinches on thistle.
The river starts an argument with itself
over rocks some kids drop from the bridge
where weeks ago someone jumped,
another week before he was found
sleeping in his car. Neither does my friend
answer. The copilot's hungover
from his sister's wedding and the plane
ducks the thunderheads. Impeccably
the insects groom themselves, each foreleg
ending with what looks like a mascara brush.
Your eyes go on being the sky's,
beautiful sentiments set off to oblivion
while across town the new opera's booed.
You walk among the racks of dresses absently
clattering the hangers. So many blues.