J.K. Durick- Three Poems

                       Files

 

Somewhere, there’s a file on each of us

Filled with the things agencies dream of:

Childhood report cards and transcripts of

All our educational adventures, all the R’s

And beyond, a full set of work evaluations,

With our shortcomings clearly highlighted

And cross-referenced, and lists of all we read

The books we bought or borrowed, all our

Subscriptions, newspaper and magazines,

Certain titles underlined, ominous notes

In the margin, our complete medical records

Are there, of course, and a listing of all drugs

We took, prescription and over the counter ones,

Even the under the counter ones we were

So sure no one saw us buy, and glossy pictures

Of us picking them up at Walgreen’s and out

Behind the shopping mall from that odd little man

With the pickup and pit bull that never barks,

And the names of our friends and relatives, all

Our known associates and casual acquaintances,

The usual suspects and a few persons of interest.

It’s all there, our lives echoing, all our shadows,

Our blood type, fingerprints, footprints, DNA,

Our dogs’ names in chronological order, our

Favorite teams and ice cream flavor, our sign,

Our passwords and passports; it’s all right there

Ready to be digitalized, etherized, ready to be

Part of that cloud that hangs over us all.

            The Merk of Muckle

 

Welcome to deep down into this merk of muckle;

it surrounds you sinking, thinking, blinking; now,

you tread your feet, move your arms.

 

At first, almost at home in it, this merk of muckle,

but then tiring to too tired, losing a bit you slip begin

to kick and flail, kick and fail.

 

At first, warm, bath-like, cooling to tepid, edging to

cold you kick some more, flail even harder, rapidly

losing, you slip deeper down into it, chin deep.

 

At first, light, then dark, like night or someone closed

the lid, sealed you in. If by chance you had any sort of

life, this is when it flashes, actually it scrolls slowly before

your eyes and you realize how much muckle you knew

before this merk, this quirk, this bad turn out of things.

 

At first, you fight then slacken, then stop; sometimes it’s better

just to surrender to this much anticipated merk, the inevitable

muckle; the end, in the end,  can’t justify the means, or any

of this give it meaning, this merk of muckle.

          Dead on His Feet

 

This man knows tired well enough

The way it weighs him down

The hours like lead have led to this

As if years awake, weary walking

Bone weary, dog-tired, drained.

 

He knows worn-out and drowsy too

Wears them as well as expected

Far beyond their expiration date

His energy on emergency reserve

Beat, burdened, almost all spent.

 

This man knows fatigue too well

Is still on speaking terms with it

His closest friend, dearest enemy

Its downward pull reminds him

Like an overused phrase might.

 

He’s bushed, he’s sleepy, he’s beat

He has claimed each in turn, as if

Naming gave it life beyond its drag

It’s one foot in front of yet another

It’s plodding slog, trudging tromp.

 

This man knows destiny and design

The way the temporary takes over

And continuing becomes enough

Motivation to keep it all going on

His fate, his calling, his lot in life.