She’s getting downright boring,
every night lying up there,
staring down when she decides
to part the clouds, saying nothing,
as though all of the words of praise
for her must come for us, unreturned.
I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised
by her vanity, it is why, after all,
she is up there now, unable to move
and we have to accept that our words
are small salve to her when the gods
invert her, and she is left
to gaze down upon us in her mirror
when she bothers to stop
gazing at her own image, but she says,
“I have all eternity, Poseidon be damned.”
The morphology of dreams
is partially reliant
on the whims of a single
god, and Morpheus
is, to say the least,
a truly fickle bastard
who dangles before us
joy and nightmare
each always just
out of reach, but never
out of sight or hearing.
So we are left
to grasp like marionettes
operated by an unseen hand.
We have said before
we gods wish that you
would simply pay close attention
and get the matter right.
When will you understand
all we want,
all we will accept is
I sit outside, on the mesa
having watched the mauve, fuchsia
and coral sky finally concede to night.
The two orange orbs sit
twenty yards away, staring back
and in this moment coyote and I
have known each other for moments,
and for generations, and we are content.
Coyote tells me he was once
an elder living in the old adobe
buildings, how he was a shaman,
still is, with his magic, and I
tell him of how I walked for years
in the desert, food appearing
from heaven, of how I crossed the sea
and some thought it parted for me.
Coyote and I are both old
and we know we each have stories
that no one would believe, and
so we are left to believe each other
and tell our stories to the sky gods.
This could be one of those days
when you think you might want
to finally climb Olympus and have
that discussion with the gods.
They’ve been up there forever
and it isn’t clear they serve any
Purpose other than taking up space
and betting on when Sisyphus
will get the rock to the top of the hill.
It would probably be worth the effort
just to see the look on the old
gods’ faces when you tell them
old Sisyphus retired to West Palm Beach
several centuries ago and barely
gets around to canasta and mah jongg
on his walker these days, the old rock
shipped up to Plymouth to replace
the one that used to sit in the harbor
until it eroded into little more
than stones along the beach.
Anyway there is time enough
for that tomorrow, Iceland’s playing
Hungary in the European Championship.