Life and War with Mikey Fatboy Delgado
Wednesday, January 31, 2018
Midwinter at Radwell Meadows
Sunday morning, and sermons telling how
being alive should most rightfully be
expressed in poetry. White mist lies low
on Radwell Meadows, walkers out early
whistle terriers from the entrances
and exits of the rabbit warrens there.
Along the length of each field’s edge, fences
have snagged on their dark rusted barbs the hair
of people passing, and on the sharp wind
harsh voices and their petty rules. They care
about poetry. How foolish they’ll find
this sounds when life at end slips from their grasp.
None today are thinking – neither the mist,
the poet, dog, rabbit – of the last gasp
these poet priests will exhale as the dust
returns them to carbon, ends their preaching,
reabsorbs them, foolish and uncertain.
The doctor one day solemnly leaning
across the vast desert of the desk, sun
streaming through a window beside his head,
breath held, released, mouths sorry, makes their dour
prescriptions null. Everything that was said
at Radwell Meadows in this frozen hour
now changed. The muscles of the doctor’s face
moving illuminated in that sun
is the poem now. How may this take place
for you? How may this all change with sudden
surety on a summer’s day? Who knows?
Come with your tongue then, perhaps with a gush
of better thought, speak freely of what goes
on, use all available words. Don’t rush.