our bland, middle class american
he is so healthy, at 70 something,
and weary of his island life,
the years he drove the school bus,
and now the fund raisers for the library,
playing a clumsy lewis carroll
to two rounds of applause
and a goofy jacob marley
delighting the kids.
he's tired of all that.
he wants monasticism and a woman in thrall.
he loves rachmaninoff and caol isla
finds great beauty in derelict merchants
hawking the boardwalk.
he rails at a gagged culture
that fails to nurture our nascent inner sweetness.
he doesn't see that he has it all.
doesn't know how to revel
in the bounty of his own goodness,
the culture of his own soul.
the only culture we've got.
we don't just live out there.
we live in here, out there.