On the Consolations of The Bourgeois Life

Kittens at Play
You take me where,
The river spills in the Inland Sea,
Where ōmi and I ,
Saw the fireflies ,
That would not let us be.

They are not so pleasant to hear ,
As the sound of your breathing,
Your breath on my face.

Better than the sky,
Is a humble roof with love and you.
The only beauty which can be sung,
Is far less than the song itself.

“You are afraid of me.”

Beauty is the least of things,
Less than the short-lived mushroom,
Less than the smoke of summer weeds,
And you have seen a moment,
You have seen a moment.
You have seen a moment.

You buried your head in my hair,
You wailed like a little child,
And laughed a little too much.

Like two kittens at play,
Sometimes one gets too rough,
And the other exits,
Tail high in the air,
Too proud to admit how much it hurt.

We sat against the door,
and caught fireflies in an old jar,
on the porch.

I remember when you painted the streets ,
And shouted: “Fire! Fire!”
But the neighbors only laughed,
And said: “There’ll be no fire for us.”

The delicate loveliness of a frosted landscape,
Peered at in wonder through a picture window,
Looks altogether different through fogged up glasses,
Huffing and puffing to shovel the driveway in time for work.

A woman wipes her hands on her apron,
Body firm but soft in her cotton dress.
She tilts up her and pretends to sulk,
And she scolds me for being late again.

The cold wind of evening rises,
Shivering the wet leaves.
While the voices of the earth and the skies tremble,
Come up to our ears,
Up as they seem.
That the grass is the color it seems,
And the sky is the color it seems.There are a thousand points of beauty that I love
In the garden, among falling shadows.

The trees will be black,
Like jagged teeth, against the sky.
And silence will sink
Down like leaves,
Insisting that I lie down beside it.

The Geography of My Weekdays
In the dark, there is a pale blue light,
That comes to life before me,
And all within it,
Is bright and comforting.

And in my hands,
The keyboard’s 1234567890,
Or was it qwertyuiop?

Heartbroken, I issue the death decree:

My fingers trip in a tangle of wires,
Scattered across my desk,
Hard drives and headphones and old coffee cups,
Are the geography of my weekdays.

Grandma never gave recipes in cups or teaspoons,
She would only say, “Just a bit more” or “About yea much.”

She didn’t say a word when Aaron and I,
Ran through the spare bedroom,
And her rising rolls fell.
Mom would shake her head and laugh and laugh,
“That would have earned a spanking when Grandma was my age.”

Bread is made from seeds and fungus,
But histories are made from love.

Grandma is frail now,
Her white hair is neatly combed and gathered in a bun,
Hardly the same women in the black and white photo,
Laughing at herself wearing pants,
Kicking up dust and dirt,
Grandpa, long since passed,
Shaking his head and laughing at her boldness.

She cries a little when you get up to go,
Knowing it could be the last time.
You thought you were the only one,
Who knows what this day means,
But when you come to her she wipes her eye,
And her voice is steady and strong.

-Justin Merritt & GPT-3