Ken Bolton / September Poems / 9.
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11 (Two Blues) I leave a note that says “I’m having coffee at Mr Surly’s” & go there— where this poem ‘finds’ me staring at a sea I sometimes refer to as the Aegean, tho in fact it is the Adriatic—wondering why I’m here. To have a coffee? Tho I have forgotten that. (The waiter will remind me.) To do God’s will? Not likely. Who lives in all those churches, shouldn’t they do it? as they’re drawing pay? God's will, I mean. I doubt that I am here to reap the benefit of my education— “Ah, Europe!” being the entire accrued payout. This, this moment, may not be unrelated— # I never go to Asia. It is not a firm enough idea. # The nett result of all this history, the variegated sameness—the brands that are everywhere or interchangeable, i Simpson, Upim, Kookai— is to make me feel mortal & to make the ‘old’ ideas— humanity, fame, vanitas— seem plausible. Melancholy, & enchanted by the sound of a scooter motor whizzing past behind me— or seen thru a doorway— the silence stitching itself together, restoring lassitude; entranced by the just proportion & calming patina of a wall, opposite the arch that frames it— which I look thru— (the smell of petrol, the cheering futility of the desire that gunned the accelerator in the first place— the going nowhere). “I’ll have a short black, please.” Then I add “Espresso” by way of amplification. The waiter has shown up. You would have to say “eventually”— But I don’t care. The hill out there looks great silver grey against the blue, the blue above, the blue below