We may try to begin at the beginning, we
May try to narrate the end, but it’s pretend.
We’re always in the middle so long as we are
Anything at all. One man sits at a picnic table
In front of the village laundromat, waiting
On a friend who wants to talk to him, but
She’s currently sidetracked across the street
In an impromptu chat with another friend
She happened to meet. Further down,
Other men are preparing the old hardware
Building, a ramshackle centenarian,
For tomorrow’s demolition. Word is, a rescue
Dog in training will be brought in and tested
In the ruins before they start to clean it up.
A breeze ruffles the thinning hair of the man
At the table, still waiting for the friend. Sun
Comes out and goes back in. A young girl
Runs up to him. “I’m starving!” She says.
“How long now?” The sun comes out again.
A white-haired, rugged man with a milk pail
Ambles by and, a propos of nothing, begins
A jeremiad about the absurdity and pollution
Of long-distance shipping. The sun goes in.
The girl runs off to the sandwich shop.
The friend arrives and talks to the man
Who is upset about shipping. They consider
The parlous state of the planet while the first
Man goes inside to check on his clothes.
One machine has unbalanced. The girl
Returns with a pineapple sandwich. The sun
Finds another cloud. That mobile rascal.
What we experience is not what happens,
Although it’s sufficiently similar to have
Allowed our ancestors to propagate, so
Here we are, as we are, infinitely far from all-
Knowing, but not entirely in the dark.
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