I am the last to retire. It is I
who must walk among the quiet losses
of a day, minor victories and tiny
joys made equal in the utter
elusiveness of it all.

Dolls, face up on the carpet,
speechless,
stare at me
as I tiptoe through the obvious,
wishing another world for these
unsuspecting souls.

Bombs are falling, people are cheering
and I have the rent to pay.

"Brush your teeth and go to bed.
Say your prayers. Everything will be
okay. I'll leave the door ajar,.
Goodnight, sweethearts."

The natural clutter of the day
is art at its purest. It needs
no sham artifice to break your heart
or send you into hysterics.
I admire the drama of the day,
its spiritual consequences;
willing to laugh yet unable
to muster the enthusiasm.

I'm careful not to disturb the dolls
staring from their lonely suspension,
abandoned for the long dark night.
There is a kind life
in the plastic world.
What we have given to the loveless
and the dead, wakes, almost
believing, almost touching
the bed of hope
on which they, through us, lie.

The room in its pity almost comes alive.
Tomorrow voices and complaints,
laughter and petty squabbles,
a cluttered room of wishes gone awry --
God's little toys going through
the motions of skill and madness.

Soon I will begin again
my sleepwalking love affair
with conditional truth, an accidental
guide through the corridors
which end each day in the maze
of self, no child's father,
no teacher of humankind.

Then the figures will pantomime
in repetitive vagaries
the dream of life.