Tuesday, July 31, 2018

Reading the Morning Paper


Used to be I read the news

—paper spread across the kitchen table



folded down to a manageable size

to make room for possibilities



and a cup of coffee with whoever

rolled out of bed to join me



folding histories to handle tragedy

yet get on with the day



taking surreptitious pleasure

in avoiding a glamourous life



flipping through pages of car adverts

sports statistics and the stock market



as if rambunctious numbers, horse power

and wheels formed a mysterious gruff world



for data-armed men whiskered and clean shaven

who later posed weaponless in marriage and birth



announcements, then, at the end the obituaries

of all the beloveds, pages and pages of peaceful



people whose demise spawned mourners

to consider the person, not their things.



None of the obituaries read, “So-and-so

died surrounded by countless belongings



of which survivors must now

rid themselves as their own possessions

are jealous gods.”











Illustration:
 'At Breakfast' (1898) by Laurits Andersen Ring; 
National Museum, Stockholm (public domain)








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