Into this living of the rest
Arthur Cleveland ~ Andrew Wyeth
I don’t know what he did or is about to do, but
he fills the room too large for having done it.
Doors open easy to him and remain that way
until he passes through. Ceilings seize and cant
perilous shadows and though crowding him for
headroom, dare not interfere with pressing business.
He’ll leave when he wishes. Until then, resting
an unhurried hand against the bedpost, he will
not rouse a sleeping dog. The door that matters
most may well be behind him where just beyond
a 550 Spyder might be parked idling for his key, a
golden woman filing slow red nails in the front seat.
There is no hurry in him. He might stand this way
past dusk as the room changes into what it becomes
after fire crosses the sky and the fetcher wants out.
Until whatever time spills him in this light has spent
its purpose, he will not let on needlessly to anything.
So we stare framed in the foothold of this standoff.
No matter that two worlds away machines may do
our dire bidding, the future keeps every creaking in
this house high above the floorboards. We will hold
with him until the voices have had their say, until
whatever stirs unseen within each of us pulls one
or the other away into this living of the rest of it.
January 23, 2009