Redeemed Area

American Poetry Review, The, May/Jun 1999 by Ashbery, John

Do you know where you live? Probably.

Abner is getting too old to drive but won't admit it.

The other day he got in his car to go buy some cough drops

of a kind they don't make anymore. And the drugstore

has been incorporated into a mall about seven miles away

with only about half the stores rented. There are three

other malls within a four-mile area. All the houses

are owned by the same guy, who's been renting

them out to college students for years, so they are virtually uninhabitable.

A smell of vitriol and socks pervades the area

like an open sewer in a souk. Anyway the cough drops

(a new brand) tasted pretty good-like catnip

or an orange slice that has lain on a girl's behind.

That's the electrician calling now

nobody else would call before 7 A.M. Now we'll have some

electricity in the place. I'll start by plugging in

the Christmas tree lights. They were what made the whole thing

go up in sparks the last time. Next, the light

by the dictionary stand, so I can look some words up.

Theri probably the toaster. A nice slice

of toast would really hit the spot now. I'm afraid it's all over

between us, though. Make nice, like you really cared,

I'll change my chemise, and we can dance around the room

like demented dogs, eager for a handout or they don't

know what. Gradually, everything will return to normal, I

promise you that. There'll be things for you to write about

in your diary, a fur coat for me, a lavish shoe tree for that other.

Make that two slices. I can see you only through a vegetal murk

not unlike coral, if it were semi-liquid, or a transparent milkshake.

I have adjusted the lamp;

morning's at seven, f

the tarnish has fallen from the metallic embroidery, the walls have fallen,

the country's pulse is racing. Parents are weeping,

the schools have closed.

All the fuss has put me in a good mood,

O great sun.