The Weekend Visitor

		I

You 
Arrive with your own personal
Volcano in tow of blue
And green explosions,
Your 
Rounds of shells
Firecracking and splitting
My air.  You
Divest me of my peace -
You are a
Deliberate discarding
Of my normal wear.

My still life's membrane
Becomes a vortex of
Uncontrollable speed of willed
Activity, the crackling of
Static as red and flashing
Lights invade my eyes:
Places, people, pubs, taking in
The sights, doing the
Tour of the town we wear
Down the cobblestones 
And you make my feet
Sore with walking after you. 

High-life, low-life a
Mêlée of skirts and tones
Of University gowns and
You buying new shirts and
Sox to impress me with your
Money.  I hovered outside
The man's clothes shop,
Nose pressed against the 
Glass observing the deferential
Old-fashioned salesman in his
Timeless place smiling at your
Money.  And then on
To the next activity 
With its unsteady whirl of
Emptiness.  Then you were
Gone with your volcano spitting
Heat and ash on someone
Else.

		II

I waved goodbye to the taxi's
Back window.  You did
Not turn your head to reciprocate, your
Mind already pointed at
The next piece of action.  I was
Already in the past
Moment dying.

My peace settled back
Into itself again with a sigh of
Thanks - my normal dust
Alighting casually onto my
Books, billowing curtains
Letting in cool air to 
Circumabulate my room -
There was the mute slant 
Of delicate sunlight and the
Music of the birds like
Nature and the trees' silences
After the thundering roar
Of a jet has passed, leaving
Peace in its wake and relief
At the absence of 
Nuisance.

All my world subsides
To a hush and is
Nowhere, nothing, but
Quietude and sitting
With a book.  In the
Calmness of my solitude.

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