Grasshopper reads Chekhov to a Thai Hooker in the Hollow of an Oak in a Cul-de-Sac
The flip of a tractor trailer
The writhe of a live power line
The closing of the main road
Looking for a way home
A house, woods, trees
Just another cul-de-sac
With no way out
And there in the hollow
Of an oak I see a face
Mumbling the words
‘We must work, work, work’
Which could be my grandfather’s
Just before he fell off the wagon
And died alone on a long binge
Quickly I retreat
But soon I’m back
At another sleepy circle
In front of another house
Looking much like the other
Staring at another face
Whispering in the hollow:
‘I’m in mourning for my life’
Which could be yours from
25 years ago speaking the words
Of some playwright from 50 years before
On some stage I’d long forgotten
(Hope you’re doing fine)
(And whatever role you’ve found
is the one you want)
Or maybe it was the blank stare
Of my grandmother
Who would sit for hours
Watching wrestling on TV
‘Mammaw, you know it’s not real’
‘Oh but it is. I’ve seen the blood.’
And so I get out of there
Only to find another cul-de-sac
Much like the others
And this time it’s the stupor of my father
Stumbling through the front door
His white T drenched with blood
Glass in his hair, but now he looks
Like David Carradine, whispering:
‘Two things we know, Grasshopper.
All living things suffer. And yet
they are programmed to keep going.
Til they just can’t go no more.’
And then there ‘s this nirvanic grin
Followed by a gurgling sound
And then nothing
But a curdling darkness
Wrapping about me
Like an old cloak
from an old theater
expecting me to slip in
Or maybe it’s just an ordinary owl
Keeping me from sleep
With his ridiculous truths
From some other century
And all will be forgotten
On the way to work
In a certain slant of morning
Beyond the tinny grace of birds
Teasing in the distance.
— Ray Sweatman
