I never expected ‘interesting’
to be such an offensive word,
like the unavoidable scent of semen
one calls freedom, though nothing as carnal
as patting the bed while dressed as a brigand
with a flask of brandy and a handkerchief,
uncomfortable yet of modest needs, certainly deliberate—
a kindred spirit trespassing the orchard east of Eden,
asking if there was anything special about the twenties
other than becoming a quinquagenarian in the midst of them,
which at the time seemed such a conundrum
but eventually drowned in birds’ chirping
at the first sign of a full-house solitude,
raising cauliflowers to the rank of orchids
(something to repay for one’s ignorance),
playing violin in the afternoon with the passion
of sock garters mingling in the lingerie chest
(I don’t think we ought to withstand the weight of the harp—
it seems like too hasty a decision, doesn’t it?),
to finally leave an inheritance in the form of a pair of wellies
and a map of Cornwall, and perhaps an ossuary
to keep amongst photos and sighs
on the sideboard.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 