Poetry
Song Wherein the Flesh Abides
Alan Michael Parker
Behind a garbage truck men swing,
bodies open, each with one arm wide.
On the sidewalk an arpeggio of teens
in carefully unkempt uniforms,
stunning buttons, knees and elbows,
their lives unmade, trills to school.
A bleary restaurateur sweeps
lipsticked cigarettes into the gutter:
every day is like this, and isn’t this.
The teens tease and jostle, practicing.
The soul is like this too, practicing.
So many states of being, beginnings
ignored by the gaunt crows
worrying around in orthodox robes,
who fly and land and hop along.
So many minutes to unmake.
The flesh is like this, practicing.
In the jangle of choices at a kiosk,
a man in a blue suit buys a paper—
the pages catch the wind, refuse to fold.
He chases what he holds lightly;
in a gust of pleasure he chases the news,
a man running anywhere,
children chattering in the blustery sunshine,
the traffic lights unmade, unmade.
There’s no time
but he gives in
to being late, muscle, music,
yellow tie fluttering as his body lifts—
a small boat with a paper sail.