Pain and exhaustion had their own ways
Of interpreting a perfect day. They swayed
Together and stumbled, blinking like owls
And gasping like fish, like dancers at the end
Of a contest to find the couple that could
Hold up the longest. You’ve seen the picture.
More than the blue blown-glass sky above
The red cliffs, more than the scalloped
Patterning of sand in place of creek water,
More even than the incessantly pleasant,
Soft chatter of the little gray birds, they saw
The way the jogger stumbled, they heard
The way the fallen child bawled on the trail.
The world was perfect, admitted exhaustion
To pain, perfect without either of them,
But it was sarcasm born of irritation,
Their grandchild, if you like, that admission.
Pain replied that it was always when worst
And least able to take action that one most
Wanted to leave. The sun was ideally bright,
Just the angle to warm a chair set in sand
Without scorching the skin, and the air
Occupied itself with the small breezes
That ancient poets so loved to name,
And one could have, should have said
That these sweetnesses were mercies
Counterbalancing the heavy duo, but there
Could be no counterbalancing once, or while
Pain and exhaustion slunk in and sunk in.
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