THE DAY
For Philip Levine
History sings “misery, misery.”
The force that gives us meaning
is terrible, bloody and sweet.
So many lenses the clock holds
up to the past in shades of rose,
lilac, and pansy. The holy,
irrevocable scenes of things
as they were—ignited, burned,
mistaken. The day, as in, back in…
The day, as in the day we played
both sides of the ball; the day,
as in the day we talked to God,
then wrote it down; the day,
as in the day we lived offline
in caves and drew on walls;
the day, as in the day a pack
of cigarettes cost a couple of dimes,
the same as gas; the day, as in the
first, the second, the third, the last;
the day, as in the day we waited
in line for how many hours
to say to the man like Phil Levine,
“I want your job”; the day, as in
the day we built enormous things
with only our hands, then threw
away the plans; the day, as in
the day no novocaine numbed
the pain and we felt it to the bone.