Railroaded

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

Job on the hills. .

Is that wrong too?

"Your stay . . . more enjoyable."

To tell the truth I hardly heard her

what with the wind whistling through the pinecone.

Tell us more about your experience.

That's what really interests our readers.

You know, times when you were down and out

and depressed, like everybody.

When you got up from the table hungry

and didn't eat for a week after that.

Or places with names to which you've fixed a special resonance:

Florence, Florida. Women (and I'm sure there were many)

with whom you spent the night in silken sheets,

or guys (the ones with dicks), I'll wager

there were a few of those too.

Now add salt to the cauldron

of lies-and wishes-oversalt,

in fact, or the end result will be downright bland.

I can picture this happening in a kitchen

below some stairs.. .

Heck, I can't help it if there was no room

for my girlfriend's shoes, her vast collection

of pocketbooks with scotties on them.

There were never enough closets,

you see, to go around. We kept things spread out

all over the house. If someone wanted something

he knew where to look for it

and it would probably be there

just as in our time the moon is probably there

where you last looked for it, in one of its phases.

The sun was glorious too

and the marigolds.

Hand me my pickaxe. I think I just overstayed my welcome.

An alarm just went off, some place deep inside.

The wallpaper of my bedroom has been destroyed.

No more chaffinches for a while, at least. Too bad.