Category: arts and letters

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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The famous rock and roller sang,

You can’t always get what you want,

But do you really know what you want

Before you know what you can have?

 

A friend said, if you keep pointing fingers

You’ll eventually point at yourself.

Is he a savant, a philosopher disguised

As an ordinary man, a man whose

Ordinary mind turns up a nugget

Of truth, or is he a fraud, exciting

The gullible with pronouncements

So silken they’re sure to have once

Been sow’s ears.

 

You can get what you want

If you want nothing, or only a little.

A practical policy, though unpatriotic.

 

Didn’t somebody say, I want it all.

Is that person to be admired? Or pitied?

We’re cajoled into buying things we

Never imagined wanting, things we

Don’t need, things that will make our

Lives more difficult, although we won’t know it.

 

There’s the rub. What we want is knowledge,

The knowing that pricelessness is a concept

Of ridicule in the circles that may come near,

But will never open to let us step inside

And see everything we’ve always imagined

We wanted, everything that will allow us

To eagerly peer at reflections of ourselves,

To smile and say, And this is all.

 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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Empty spaces to be filled,

Shelf with books and art objects,

Drawer with socks and underwear,

Closet with shirts and pants,

Car trunk with shopping bags,

First aid kit, hiking gear.

 

But what of the hollow spaces

In the mind where facts echo,

Where opinions rattle like loose bearings,

And the light is so dim one has to grope

To find the way to the door.

 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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Standing at the window,

Watching the wind in the trees,

Overcome with sadness and remorse

For all that is gone and will never be.

A parent, a friend, an old car,

Money scattered like the brittle leaves

That flutter away in a sudden gust,

Then fall in a just as sudden calm.

They will skitter across the sidewalk

And into the boisterous street

Where a car speeds in one direction,

And a car going even faster

Speeds in the other. To where?

And why such urgency,

When the brittle crunch beneath the tires

Will fade with the swelling warmth,

And buds will appear on the branches,

And when no one is watching,

Unfurl into leaves, dark or bright,

Slender or broad, ready to dance

In a freshly awakened breeze.

 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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There are heroes unknown to those

Who worship the celebrities smiling

Or frowning, as the case may be,

At the supermarket checkout counters,

On TV talk programs, on billboards

That implore us to buy a product,

See a movie, take a trip to an exotic place,

Somewhere we can forget what we are

In the bigger scheme of things.

 

The woman who brings the mail,

In the heat, the cold, the rain, the Santa Ana

Winds that carry the desert’s dessicated breath

All the way to the inexorably rising sea,

Knowing that her motley bestowal

Will go, almost immediately, to the reclycling bin.

And yet she always smiles, says Hello,

How’re you doing? I knew her name once,

But now it’s gone, buried with other facts

In a hidden corner of the brain that rusts,

Not of disuse or neglect, but from an oversupply

Of information, most of it worthless,

Mistakenly allowed to collect in the belief

That it mattered. That vast knowledge would

Be the mark of heroism, when in fact that elusive

State of being arises not from anything grandiose,

But small, diligent, infinitely repeated acts

Of good will. Like smiling and saying Hello

When trudging the same drab street every day,

Bringing the unwanted mail.

 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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What is a home?

Floor and walls,

Ceiling and roof,

Doors to walk

In and out of,

Windows to let

In light and air.

Lamps that come on

When you flick a switch,

Water that pours out,

When you turn a faucet.

Heat that drives away the cold

Of winter days.

 

Or is it a place

In the head and heart?

A place where comfort

Is not a matter of

Light and water and heat

But of all the moments

Shared with the ones

You love, the memories

Of bodies entwined,

Of kindness given

And received,

Of the knowledge

That in an inconstant world,

There is something

That will never change.

 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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The refrigerator said to the kitchen range

I’m more important than you,

People can live without cooking,

But imagine if you didn’t have any place

To keep the meat, and the milk,

And the six pack of beer.

 

That may be, the range said,

But I’m more important than the dishwasher.

People can always wash dishes by hand,

But how would they get hot water

For their coffee and tea?

 

Don’t forget me, said the microwave oven.

I can heat water. I can make popcorn.

I can make those frozen tamales people like.

 

You don’t make them, said the blender.

They’re already made. All you do is thaw.

That’s pretty basic, as I see it.

On the other hand, I can blend,

Mix, puree, make smoothies.

Who else can say that?

 

The refrigerator looked at the kitchen range,

And said, I think you’re pretty cute.

Likewise, said the range. If you really tried,

You could definitely turn me on.

 

That’s ridiculous, said the toaster.

You can’t even touch each other.

But I’ve got slots where people can put things.

It feels good, especially bagels

That are nice and plump.

 

Just then the washing machine spoke up,

Loudly, because it was in the laundry closet.

Let me tell you, the things I get to handle.

Once it was this article, I don’t know what it’s called,

From Victoria’s Secret.

 

That’s nothing, said the dryer.

I got to give it a tumble, fluff it.

You just made it wet.

 

Stop arguing, said the TV set in the living room,

Does anybody sit for hours watching you?

They open your door or turn on your burner

And throw dirty stuff inside you and that’s it.

What a boring way to live.

 

No, no, said the stereo system,

People don’t care what they see on your screen,

They’re just zoned out and passing time.

But when they listen to me they’re interested,

They’re engaged.

 

But the point is, the refrigerator said,

Nobody really needs you. You’re not essential

Like me. I’m not saying that because

I think I’m better than you, it’s just a fact.

 

Stop it, said the crock pot. You’re being absurd.

We’ve all got our roles to play.

Take mine, sitting here all day simmering.

Do you think that’s fun?

No, but it’s my role and I don’t complain about it.

 

That’s right, said the juicer,

People could pull things out of the ground

And eat them raw. They could wash their

Clothes in a ditch and dry them on a tree limb.

They could read a book instead of listening

To music or watching TV. Nobody needs us.

 

That’s sad, said the toaster, what would I do?

They’d throw you away, said the dishwasher,

Like some piece of worthless trash.

I don’t want to spend my last years

In a dump somewhere, said the refrigerator,

And the range said, why don’t we get out of here,

While we still can.

 

© Dennis Hathaway

 

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He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.

We’ve all heard the song

In all its shades and voices

And we’ve gotten the message

Inscribed in that sentiment.

 

But some of us heard it

Long before its plangent

Delivery by a rock star.

My own brother and I

Growing up not far from

Father Flanagan’s Boy’s Town,

A place we might have been,

If not for a father and mother,

A fact I was sometimes thankful for,

And sometimes not.

 

The image, a boy walking,

Carrying a smaller boy on his back,

And speaking to a hidden presence:

He ain’t heavy, father, he’s my brother.

I could never quite imagine my own brother,

Two years older and many years wiser,

Taking on such a burden.

 

Heavy. As in That’s heavy, man.

Speech for hipsters, wannabes,

A strange, distant world.

Hidden by certain words, gestures,

Accouterments of being without

Familiar shape and substance.

 

In the company of those who appreciated

All that was foreign to parents

And unconscious siblings, he would

Acknowledge my presence with a

Smile curved in mischief and say

He aint’ heavy, he’s my brother.

And feeling uncertain though grateful

For the acknowledgment,

I would allow my own small smile

To twitch at the corners of my mouth.

 

© Dennis Hathaway

 

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For reasons not entirely clear,

The earth tilted too far on its axis

And everybody in North America

Slid south. Over the border

Into those regions filled with

Drug dealers, psychopathic gangs,

Men asleep in doorways

Beneath their sombreros,

Women with babies on their backs,

Rivers filled with crocodiles,

Jungles alive with wild beasts,

Cities steaming with lust and corruption.

 

The Canadians made the best of things,

Learned the language, the geography,

The culture far older and more exquisite

Than they had ever imagined

In their smug northern sanctuary.

 

But the Americans could not be bothered

To learn to say more than, cerveza, por favor.

They called all the men Jose,

And all the young women Chiquita.

And wondered where all the burros were.

 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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