twirling my pen

a pairing: Wheelbarrow, by Albert York

Wheelbarrow, by Albert York, 1974

Albert York (1928–2009) was an American artist known for his still lifes, landscapes and paintings of everyday objects. When asked why he painted, he said, “I think we live in a paradise, this is a Garden of Eden, really it is. It might be the only paradise we ever know, and it's just so beautiful, with the trees and everything here, and you feel you want to paint it.”

brothers on a train
(thanks to William Carlos Williams*)

listen:
that man staring at a tablet 
and that man gazing out the window
are brothers
you can tell
by the light curve of their noses
the near absence of chin in both
by the identical arc 
and surprising extent of forehead
the similar wave comb and whiteness of hair
above all you can tell
by the crook of neck the stoop 
the craning forward the deep intent
to see: what's there 
in the shimmer of the screen
there through the window
their gapes echo each other
a kinship beyond blood
as they face east 
back across
physical cyber luminous continents
that lead them to something 
they would call a future

wait:
the man with the tablet 
and the man looking out the window
are not brothers
you can tell
by the distance between them
as many as three steps
as many as three stops
the steel in their eyes
the oak in their eyes 
the need to turn 
look up down
raise lower oneself
just to say hello
above all you can tell
by the crook of neck the stoop 
the craning forward the deep intent
to see what's there:
their gapes clash
a division deeper than bones
as one sees a world that 
creates adopts nurtures 
as the other sees a world that 
gathers builds manages 
both places they would call the future
a future that one may neglect 
to mention to the other

don't forget:
the man with the tablet 
and the man gazing out the window
are not alone
there's the woman with the bag over her shoulder
heavy-lidded eyes about to close
or perhaps open
the pencil-nose man with the book
open on his lap 
that he's not currently reading
the woman twirling a pen
who may be quite unaware 
she's twirling a pen
then there's the crowd at the rear
a receding indeterminate gaggle of the populace
these folks all have their own notions 
of what may be seen 
adopt build or something else
something dotted along the line . . . 
cover . . . abandon . . . commit . . . fight 
. . . but for now 
they do not crane
do not stoop or gape
they are weary preoccupied
carried buoyantly along
some have always been
some will continue to be
but all will land somewhere 
in that uncertain future

consider:
sometimes I am one man
sometimes I am the other
both with deep intent
but sometimes I am 
the wayward crowd
the sleepy woman
the non-reader
the reluctant writer
twirling her pen

so I see:
on the screen
out the window
emerging 
round the bend
into the light
that so much 
depends upon 

a red wheel
barrow

*Read The Red Wheelbarrow (1923), by William Carlos Williams