WIA Poetry Corner

I'm not into poetry; that fact notwithstanding, I heard this on Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac today while munching on a sandwich on my way to a meeting. Something just struck me as being profoundly true.

"Candlelight"
by Tony Hoagland

Crossing the porch in the hazy dusk
to worship the moon rising
like a yellow filling-station sign
on the black horizon,

you feel the faint grit
of ants beneath your shoes,
but keep on walking
because in this world

you have to decide what
you're willing to kill.
Saving your marriage might mean
dinner for two

by candlelight on steak
raised on pasture
chopped out of rain forest
whose absence might mean

an atmospheric thinness
fifty years from now
above the vulnerable head
of your bald grandson on vacation

as the cells of his scalp
sautéed by solar radiation
break down like suspects
under questioning.

Still you slice
the sirloin into pieces
and feed each other
on silver forks

under the approving gaze
of a waiter
whose purchased attention
and French name

are a kind of candlelight themselves,
while in the background
the fingertips of the pianist
float over the tusks
v of the slaughtered elephant
without a care,
as if the elephant
had granted its permission.