“Tell me about the way
We used to live.”
A cross between philosopher
And child, this one is.
“Moral Geography it is, then,”
He’d grumble back,
“The pleasure of the sound of ice in the whiskey glass
Before my father had a bad thing to say.
The question of whose fault it is when the weeds grow
In that bit of grass between sidewalk and street in front
Of an abandoned house.
The puzzle of betting on the big short
The moment before the big drop sends your neighborhood to hell.
The end of the urban labyrinth that ends in a free man’s estate,
A castle for everyone, if you can keep up with the yard work.”
He wished for a map that magically traced interstate imperatives,
Deciphered the maxims dropped like bread crumbs,
Could answer the questions about the nation, the place, the house,
The room, the life that would choose us.
A smile, then, for this one. A grumble, too.
That’s what keeps the questions coming.