00327 Homage To John Ashbery Poem by Michael Shepherd

We drove downtown to see our neighbours;
none of them were home,
all that was underfoot was lost,
cathexis arrived early in a golden coach;
seems we weren’t welcome despite;
dear spit, the week is turning over.

Yes, I can see I am only in the where –
What does the loneliness in all this mean?
How can ‘rare earth’ be an element?
NB: what is here is certainly not there.
Sometimes I think it’s all one big affectation,
Every one has to grow up a little in their life.

My head ached from all those boulevards
rushing in to fill the unthinkable well;
outside under a slappy sky the leaves were right on:
it’s coming to a theatre near you.
Like all good things,
life tends to go on too long.

I'd like to write you about all this.