Today's poem is by Philip White
All morning the empty boats in the cove
drift on their lines with the tide's flow.
I sit by the window at the chipboard table
writing what happens, letting go of all
the falsehoods about death I've told.
Outside, the door at the office groans open:
voices through the wall, women, men, speaking
as if in tongues, in pure tone.
Now laughter, the door again, tools clattering
down; hammer blows, clapboards being pried at,
a ripsaw in spasms, shattering, abrupt.
What if every day were like this, someone
building, someone tearing apart. What if
under the white paint there were nothing
but wood, held together by nails
and screws. Centuries would pass and no one
would notice. The boats would ease and lift
out in the blue cove thousands of times,
and over them, ceaselessly, the gulls
would cry in their distant language,
without pity and without anguish.
Copyright © 2003 Philip White All rights reserved
from The Southeast Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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Copyright © 2002, 2003 Verse Daily All Rights Reserved