Friday, November 26, 2010

The Critics (The New Yorker)

The Critics

There was young couple.

He was a likable man
A talented, cunning suitor
Desirable and independent
with all the subtlety of a supernova.

She was likely to be awake.
A believer in strong voices,
She had taught The Boy
how to speak like a poem.

He lives here with his cat
and occasionally his wife.
The wedding was a mourning song
without death.

Their youth is apparent
with the ticking of clocks.

They lost focus,
Lacked vigor.
Generations passed
It grew harder to act.
And, in the end, could not resist themselves.

She did not want to be disturbed
He will change his view.
They fell apart.
It's not the space one has,
It's the time.

There is no end.
They will come to life again
after a good rain.

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