Archive
09/12/09
Missing Moon
Midway through another St. Louis September, I find myself, seated by myself, on this patio, As thousands of visitors mill about, Deciding, assiduously, ceremoniously, Which items not to buy, at the Clayton Art Fair, Which booths' desperate, bedouin artists Not to award with their unenlightened-eye kudos.
And I revel in being an anonymous man Like the one John Donne denied, An island-unto-himself man, Completely, unapologetically lost unto himself, Amidst the passing masses, Appreciating not being seen, listened to, appreciated, At my atoll for four, in an ocean of crowded tables.
Tonight, I probe the sky, for the waning half-moon. It's missing, and so, I realize, am I, Somewhere between nonbeing and infinity, Birth and death, inspiration and breathlessness. When no one is left on this patio And the art "experts" have gone home, I'll still be here, only less anonymous than before.
09/12/09
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