Author: H.

Where shall we go today?

To the beach to watch the waves

Break one after another, sloshing

Onto the sand like spilled foam

From a glass of beer, a moment

Of seething drama, then the

Quick furtive withdrawl, as if

The sea knows that it has

Exposed too much.

 

Or shall we trudge into the mountains

On a broken trail, wishing for silence

Instead of the drone of an airplane

And the thrash of a helicopter

Looking for a fool who has stumbled

Who has lost his bearings and will die

Without realizing his fantastical dreams.

 

Somewhere in the sanctum of chaparral

The mountain lion creeps upon the

Unsuspecting hare, and the simpleminded

Lizard allows its tail to go missing,

Certain that a new one will grow,

And the gopher snake peers out of its hole

At humans oblivious to all but the

Sound that runs through wires to their ears.

 

Where are we? The melting sky drips

Onto the ruined earth, which pushes

Forth weeds like children, the ones whose

Parents seek admiration and esteem

For an act so common that no license is required,

No training, nothing but a desire to emulate

The endless repetition of the sea,

The jagged rise of the mountains,

That sink, slowly, ponderously,

Into the darkness of the light.

 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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You can lose your money,

You can lose your temper,

You can lose your mind,

You can lose your sense of direction

You can lose track

Of almost anything.

 

Once I lost my balance

On the edge of a mountain cliff

And fell thousands of feet.

Once I lost my appetite

For no apparent reason

And ate nothing but rice cakes,

Because they have no taste.

Once I lost a favorite pen,

And couldn’t write anything

But notes to myself

Which made no sense.

 

I’ll gladly lose myself in ecstasy,

Once I find its hiding place.

Someday I’ll lose weight,

But not until the bacon

In the refrigerator is gone,

And the chocolate chip cookies

Have disappeared.

 

Proust became famous

Searching for lost time.

But how do you lose time?

Does it hide somewhere,

Along with single socks

And books you always

Meant to read but didn’t,

Because you watched TV.

Is it in the dark recesses of the closet,

Or under the bed,

Or has it simply diffused

Like an odor, into the air?

 

You can have too little time,

Or too much time,

But you can’t lose time,

Because anything lost,

Can surely be found.

 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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My wife asked me to repeat what I had said,

A common occurrence she blames on muddled speech

Although I suspect that she doesn’t hear things clearly,

Some impediment in the sensory apparatus

Gone undetected by tests at the audiologist’s office.

If I have to ask again, she said, I’m going to kill you.

But how would she do it? I’ve watched enough TV

To know that it isn’t easy to commit a murder

Without leaving evidence of your culpability.

DNA on fibers, drops of sweat, fingerprints, blood.

There’s no gun in our house, and even if there was

I doubt that she’d use it. It wouldn’t be her style.

The knives are all dull, but she could

Smother me as I slept and say that my heart,

Which beats from time to time with imperfect rhythm

Had given up, although I think that the forensics people

Would discover the signs of foul play.

She could join me on a mountain hike

And give me a push me when I stood close to an edge,

But what if I survived, a hopeless invalid,

Or what if no opportunity presented itself?

She could poison me—the Russians know how!

But where would she get that fatal drop of whatever,

And how would she keep the fact of it from coming to light?

No, better to stay in the realm of fantasy,

To let the warning linger in air of our relations,

Which can be kept happily intact through the simple

Act of speaking in a strong, clear voice.

I’ll try, but if she wants to have the knives sharpened,

I’ll make sure to stay on my guard.

 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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