You’d better have an adhesive kind of mind
if you want to keep up with global fluctuations
in the quality of sound: a sudden irruption
of rain sound, say, from a dull red canopy
across the street from Frank’s place, one single
shot in the night, foot pulled from muck,
tape hiss. The slippery dusk conspires
to keep you one step behind yourself.
Delivery trucks disguise themselves as chandeliers,
recede into the ceiling with a barely audible
click!, sealing you off from their treats,
radical news or fruit juice combinations.
At the Commercial Museum a man’s super-glued
to the sky. He can see you right now.
You look like a speck of confetti
careless sweepers left behind in the convention aftermath.
from The Waste Land and Other PoemsFind more by John Beer at the library
Copyright © 2010 John Beer
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.