Hobble Creek Review
| John Gallaher |
We Should All Try Harder
Contents of the time-capsule, 1978. Surrounded
by pretty pennies, where doors used to be
with bits of the stairs visible beyond. Add yourself,
and it’s a triumvirate. We’re suddenly young again
and don’t know what to do with it. Page one,
Japan, Hawaii, and Australia are islands. Later,
stars on the ceiling in the shapes of stars
starting bright, some light yellow-green, some
pale white-green-blue.
The night will be this long
and we’ll awaken years later, to die
surrounded by people telling us it’s OK. But for now
it’s a cul-de-sac where a baby drowns
in a swimming pool. In the lottery of things,
it depends on where you think you’re going, and other zero-like
concepts. Page 14, the street ends in empty space.
Later, the nights here are slow. We called it the 1970s
because we couldn’t remember if it had a name. We’re surrounded
by people, and some were hoaxes,
waving sparklers in figure eights. Maybe one of them
will change his or her mind. Maybe they all will
all at once.
Later that night, I’m digging the time-capsule up again
by flashlight. Tonight, there will not be time. I’ll bury it again
tomorrow. Tomorrow night, I’ll dig it up.
There will not be time. I won’t sleep well
above the yard. I’ll place my elbows just like this
on the window sill.
Page 20, they say the river is long, but it’s only as long
as we can see. Later, we say the people in the river
are not the river, that we’re the people
and we step separately, with a scarf left out
on the table, or the credenza, whatever was fashionable
back then, stalling a bit so as to have some preamble
to the fine conclusion we’ve counted on
that swings in and makes all our aimless wandering palatable.
Contents of the time-capsule, 1978. Surrounded
by pretty pennies, where doors used to be
with bits of the stairs visible beyond. Add yourself,
and it’s a triumvirate. We’re suddenly young again
and don’t know what to do with it. Page one,
Japan, Hawaii, and Australia are islands. Later,
stars on the ceiling in the shapes of stars
starting bright, some light yellow-green, some
pale white-green-blue.
The night will be this long
and we’ll awaken years later, to die
surrounded by people telling us it’s OK. But for now
it’s a cul-de-sac where a baby drowns
in a swimming pool. In the lottery of things,
it depends on where you think you’re going, and other zero-like
concepts. Page 14, the street ends in empty space.
Later, the nights here are slow. We called it the 1970s
because we couldn’t remember if it had a name. We’re surrounded
by people, and some were hoaxes,
waving sparklers in figure eights. Maybe one of them
will change his or her mind. Maybe they all will
all at once.
Later that night, I’m digging the time-capsule up again
by flashlight. Tonight, there will not be time. I’ll bury it again
tomorrow. Tomorrow night, I’ll dig it up.
There will not be time. I won’t sleep well
above the yard. I’ll place my elbows just like this
on the window sill.
Page 20, they say the river is long, but it’s only as long
as we can see. Later, we say the people in the river
are not the river, that we’re the people
and we step separately, with a scarf left out
on the table, or the credenza, whatever was fashionable
back then, stalling a bit so as to have some preamble
to the fine conclusion we’ve counted on
that swings in and makes all our aimless wandering palatable.
John Gallaher's latest book, Map of the Folded World, is fothcoming frm
The University of Akron Press. He is co-editor of The Laurel Review and
GreenTower Press. His most recent book, Map of the Folded World, is soon
to be released as part of the University of Akron's Akron Series of Poetry.
The University of Akron Press. He is co-editor of The Laurel Review and
GreenTower Press. His most recent book, Map of the Folded World, is soon
to be released as part of the University of Akron's Akron Series of Poetry.
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