POEM FOR OKLA ELLIOTT

by Mark Wallace

 

 

People die
suddenly, not people
I know, then
people I
know and the ordinary
day spins slightly
it’s not a day
that, after all, I understand
much about, it turns,
it rains or it does
not rain, people
bike past the coffee
shop window
alive today as they
were yesterday, hats,
umbrellas, coffee
cups, computers slung
over shoulders.

Let’s face it we can’t
know the future or
who will be in it, who
will splash water
up from their boots,
who will shout at no
one anyone else
can see. I’ve seen
things that matter
not much even to me: green
walls, white stairs, red
railings and it’s
me who sees them and
will forget them, quickly.

Perception balloons in moments
and people who
were here are
not any more, just like that, long
slow wind the business
remains the business, living
is always
a kind of marvelous accident
and we
are each of us its
strange, vertiginous results
and must,
always even on the point
of our death, expected,
or unexpected,
be saying and asking,
not knowing,
who we are and
what we might
live for—
as I always, Okla,
could see
you doing.

 

        

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