The Morning After

Pierrot17 July 2016

A driveway of cream crushed
white oyster shells was edged
on both sides by a deep
green lawn, mown to perfection,
a perfection that ended at its southern edge
in a serrated shoreline,
as though the lawn had been
crushed and wrinkled by a hand.

One of the wrinkles extended
into a dock, atop which
lay shells, for pairs,
and individual sculls.
No oars lay idle
at their sides.  Across the upturned
bow end of one shell lay a white towel.
I thought it a piece of sky
having fallen there, simply because
my mind was not content
until I thought such.

The scene intrigued me.
Everything about it was
action, halted: The driveway,
where no vehicles were parked.
The lawn, growing, surely,
but not visibly so, in its mown state;
the boats lying on the dock.
All lay in wait
to be enacted,
enacted by something more
than my observing them.

Only when a figure, dressed like Pierrot,
came walking, with happy step,
but sad expression, across the lawn
toward the east side porch of the house,
did action take hold.  He disappeared
up the steps and into the porch.

Then, slowly, other figures began
to inhabit the scene.  There was a queen,
half-Marie-Antoinette, half-Elizabeth I,
as far as I could make out.
There was a cavalier clearly
bearing in mind a hangover.
There was an ogre,
who looked done-in by ogreing.
There was a sprite,
annoyingly energetic,
who kept getting swatted out of the way.
He apparently was unaware
the party had come to an end.

It was then my mind
shifted into overdrive, trying to figure
which of them could possibly
be the rowers.

Philip Kuepper
(13 July 2016)

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