While Busy Making Other Plans …

The image in the mirror

Is you or it might be someone else

How can you tell?

Have you memorized yourself

Are you certain that an imposter

Hasn’t appropriated the ego

That sets you apart from me

And him and her and them

And tried to use your credit card

And sleep with your husband

Or wife. Voted for a candidate

You cannot abide, even committed

A crime. The only way you’ll know

Is if you turn yourself in.

Let someone pore over your DNA,

Your most personal possession,

More personal than a certain shirt

And the watch that tells imperfect time

But has some forgotten meaning.

Best to avoid mirrors altogether,

Forget the length of your nose

And the droop of your chin

And the baggy weight of your cheeks

And the lips half open with an observation

That vanished before it got that far.

 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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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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