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FOLDING

Sheets tumble out
crisp as morning, mustiness
washed away, floral pattern redolent.

Wrinkles pressed in
by the our bodies have been smoothed
by the dryer; its warmth clings to the fibers.

We stand holding
opposite ends, for the millionth time
folding in sleep and sex, snores and soft breaths.

We tuck away sheets
the way weathered veterans
wrap the flag at the close of Memorial Day,

each crease a lament,
each solemn movement a tribute.
Fold by fold the shiny cloth grows shorter

and the vets
draw closer together; their flag
folds down to a sunset blue sky lit by stars.

SOAP OPERA UPDATE
for Maryann Devine

Tragedy, heartbreak treachery--
same old crap, Maryann, same old characters
you'd tell me about after the TV went dark.
I caught their act today; I tell you
you haven't missed a thing

but they miss you, their
betrayals and screwings, deaths and resurrections
have new intensity; and if they
emote too much I think they're only
trying to reach you, bring you back to the bed

where you quietly watched them while they
watched you quietly die. If your death scene lacked
sturn und drang, breathless rescue, miracle cure
they let you lie on the edge of life
letting them act out your pain.

They seem unsure now about
the next twist, how the episode ends. I tell them
it never ends, just keeps twisting toward
the beaking point, the impossible fix, the black hole
from which they always emerge.

But I'll keep an eye on them, let you know
how it comes out, if it ever come out.
Meanwhile, my dear,
you haven't missed a thing, except maybe
the long absence, the tearful reunion, the fresh start.

THE RAILING

It's frightening up here
but the view is so breathtaking
I'm tempted to lean out a bit farther, take it all in--
not just the beauty but how my clothes
would flap if I fell, how my arms would reach
for the ground as it rose to meet me.
This shaky railing is all I have to hold onto.
With each forward and back it loosens
a little more, creaks when I push on it, wobbles
in my hands. It's been weakened
by all the others who've stood on this balcony
for the air, the view, the distance
above the workaday world--the fearless kid
perched on the rail, back to the wind, feet dangling,
the acrophobic who could see himself
falling and pulled back, the stargazer seeking
a closer look at eternity.
It takes getting used to, this edge, this uncertainty,
this sense that each time I sway
the dim world down there is nodding to me.

© All Copyright, Sherman Pearl.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.