J.K. Durick- Two Poems

J. K. Durick is presently a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Literary Juice, Napalm and Novocain, Third Wednesday, and Common Ground Review.  

            Meeting

 

It’s startling just how little

gets done by a group this size.

Time spent this well, unwisely,

agendas awash in formalities,

intentions, the good and bad

dashed, smashed like dishes,

fine china, like all the stuff

your grandparents left you

and you forgot which box

it was in until it was too late,

like this meeting, all the time

we’ll never get back to use

on something that gets done,

finished like the laundry, or

a work day, or that jigsaw

puzzle that took a whole

winter away, but there it

was, a finished picture of

two kittens and a ball of

yarn getting away from

them, the irony of great art

that forever freezes time

the balance of the past

up against the future, all

that winter summarized

in an accomplishment of

sorts, unlike this meeting

that drags its nails over

chalkboard in our heads,

persists, punishes, pulls

fake rabbits out of its hat,

that top hat it wore when

it arrived, like someone of

note, a dignitary from some

unpronounceable country

that exports some essential

like coffee or daydreams.

This is the kind of gathering

we’ll be at when the bomb

finally drops, when the toxic

air finishes our last gasp, when

the melted icecaps run out

of hope, when all our parking

meters expire, just as the

final meter maid turns the

corner whistling what

passes for a happy tune.   

         Doing Laundry

 

My clothes know me all too well,

know my routines and misdeeds,

have followed me from dreadful

depths to perilous heights, have

hung around with me and then

again without me, have done their

best to cover my indiscretions and

my missed directions, have joined

my few attempts at fashion, and

have reminded me of my shape

and age. My clothes surround me,

hold me closer than anything else,

touch me in ways that nothing

else can, confine me and confide

in me, take my measure, and will

adjust to me when called upon

to do so. My clothes stay with me

for years, cycle through the seasons,

fade gradually, become old friends

I meet and remember, associate with

dates and places, sadder times and

happier, become the part of them

that I can still manage, can hold in my

hands, can admire or even lament.

My clothes are honest with me, tell

me truths about myself and others,

notice my mood and act out their

part in it, try hard to console me, try

to repair the appearance of things,

try hard to hide those parts of me,

the physical, of course there’s that,

and the emotional and spiritual too.

My clothes accumulate around me,

fill bureau drawers and too crowded

closets, both upstairs and down, fill

bins I’ve labeled and stacked as if

I feared losing track of some essential

pieces of who I am. My clothes are

a nervous habit, a necessary ritual,

moments of indulgence, of reluctance,

a part of me I can wash and dry, fold

carefully and put away for another day.