From the Country of Perhaps

It's always there, the country of Perhaps,

where it's an agreeable time to be betrayed

into the arms of a middle-aged cocktail waitress

and the warmth of a plausible high-rise bar

where the music is satisfyingly loud

and of no particular vintage

and no one knows or cares who you are -

or at least so you'd like to think

as you sip something quixotic

that's normally far too expensive to drink.

And of course it's a place where a public style

can usually be found for the private shames

of a face made ugly by repeating its sins

or not being able to finish the crossword.

There, too, the hesitant figures

who reel into the night and trip over hydrants

really can still play the movements of

complex sonatas and will see in the mirror

come morning a shape and gesture they can love.

You think it's not to be visited? Too far away?

No, no, and nearer than you imagine.

Just look at your watch-face for a moment -

the appointments, disappointments, the alarms,

and the mystery of six different

but simultaneous time-zones where your schedule

will be kept and meant maybe once only but then

ramify and be unexpected forever.

No wonder you need your shades to confront

how multiple your ends; and the others...

At least these inhabitants have things in common:

all have been tempted to flee and driven

at some cost down the eight-lane highways of guilt

where one-night hotels beckon them in

with neon arabesques and the offer

of complimentary hors d'oeuvres.

Their credit, like yours, is into the red.

They also hope for the ocean and look wistful

when easy deaths turn ugly, and photographs

of the dog-eared innocent are displayed with pride.

And all have made the valiant effort

at least for a moment to pursue

the moral imperatives of a changed life:

you can see how much it has taken,

how hard it is merely for them to be there,

confused by their passions, not knowing

how to use the cutlery or what to wear

or about tomorrow or whether to send,

postmarked from the country of Perhaps,

the letter that means less than they intend.

A pen is

Unwise; undone. Everyone said

too rash, and prophesied the mad

amendments of a short affair

gone wrong. Here, there and everywhere

dinners by gossiping decreed

a razor's edge; that heads would bleed.

Perhaps the voices of Alas

were right; but how much righter was

the voice that candidly advised

a pen is always compromised -

'Never go out with poets. They

just want to write the elegy.'