H
e a r t S o n s & H e a r t
D a u g h t e r s
of A l l e n G i n s b e r g
N
a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 :
A r c h i v e s E d i t i
o n
BOB RIXON
A
HARD CHAIR
I have not learned how
to properly balance
the mundane details of life,
the phone bill, the gas bill,
an overdue library book.
A tiny bird hops along
the broken concrete wall
channeling the river.
I am only concerned
with how beautiful things
also must struggle, yet
they show little anxiety
for tomorrow's rent
or appetite for memory.
A wasp fans a nest of mud,
the river sluggishly flows
through a steamy Jersey July,
the hospital expects money.
Where is that peace in which
we can enjoy our modest blessings,
our human troubles, our daily bread,
a sturdy tent & the lovely
presence of children?
I have been asking this question
for six-thousand years.
Forgive these ancient complaints,
for I have chosen a hard chair
as my bleak watchtower,
& in its squeaky springs
I hear the rusty pulley
on my mother's clotheslines
when dandelions were yellow flowers.
I will give them their dollars
enclosed with an ugly silence,
then listen for the thunderstorm
crackling through my radio.
[Originally
published in NHS 2004, http://www.poetspath.com/napalm/nhs04/Bob_Rixon.html.]