Swinging on the Clock
You'd have to wonder, was it fear or freedom on his mind
When he abandoned his new car on the dealer's lot
That bright blue morning the ambulance
Took him for a ride and never returned.
Shot the chance to close the trade
And never called to say why or what;
Just left some poor schmuck Loman
Swinging on the clock, losing his month.
Well, that's what we do on our way out.
Release, betray, forfeit out of hand
the vital urgencies, phantoms,
defining tangibles, relativities.
Calendared hopes, promises, plans
momentous matters, all scatter like
Fragments of anachronistic time;
Pockets of loose ambitions empty,
Small change tossed into the wind;
Solemn vows, grander reasonings,
shed their gravity, fade to inconsequence
Vaporize in the slight breath of the passage.
And it doesn't matter what's cooking up for lunch
Or how to end the last thought . . .
Is it fear, or envy of the freedom
Breeds a widow’s weeds, resentment?
About this: The anniversary of my father’s death almost 30 years ago had me recalling small details of the day, and thinking about them from the perspective of other people who were momentarily affected, as for example, the car salesman with whom he had an appointment that he failed to keep that morning. That episode seemed defining––death being the abandonment of all the attributes, details, promises we have woven together into a fabric we call life.