Dash It! Poem by STANLEY PACION

Dash it, Baby!
Is this the best we can manage.

Don't tell me! Have neither of us the sense,
Reason enough to know which way is up, or down?

Here's the key, there's my desk,
You already have my heart,
You can come and go,
Whatever pleases you, no problem.

Should you find a spare penny,
Lying anywhere about the house,
Keep it, and whenever you have found the opportunity,
Use it, toss it into a fountain and wish us well.

Don't be hard on me old girl;
I take my hat off to you.
We have had a run of bad luck.
Let's hope that things are bound to get better.

Well, are you happy?
I did say? I promised you, did I not, that
I would make you queen of my poetry.
Truth, haven't I? Who of us is happier?

You take pleasure in your business,
You have your list of details,
All the very many, important things 'to do',
And now with your father gone,
You have the legal consequence, and its paper work,
Plus the obligation of those household matters,
All those little things, which once he had used to handle.

How you must miss him!

I shall change the topic.

You seem to love your car and lengthy driving about.
I sometimes wonder where you go,
Yet I figure you run to your usual haunts:
The regular flea market along side the Delaware River,
And to those giant strip malls dotting the landscape,
The same geographic stretch between Princeton and Trenton,
Where once General Washington
Had fought and suffered for years,
Freeing countryside from foreign domination, those lands
Which today are parking lots
And lines of concrete block architecture
Housing big-box and other discount merchandise.
You disappear for days seemingly involved with your labors.

Not a word about your travels, not a single line,
No Internet connection, you claim.
And when I ask about your goings,
Why the haste?
You answer, 'Antique show on Saturday.'
Of course, I have heard that one before.
Then I ask you, where?
You say, 'Pennsylvania.'

The dialogue becomes tedious,
Or is it me? Have I grown ridiculous?

Yet I remind you, Pennsylvania is a very large state!
As I query,
I see your thinking plainly roll in your eyes.
Weird, right? Can you believe it? Doesn't it look silly?
Maybe you practice some form of entitlement.
Might you genuinely feel you have no need to elaborate,
Or provide information about your whereabouts?
Still would you admit that when you read this verse,
And hear me repeat your response,
After all, what's the big deal to an honest question?

Strange, isn't it? You deign a one word answer, 'Allentown.'

I imagine you understand what I mean, not that it matters.

Hello. Is there anybody out there?

Remember the colors of our dreams,
When the magic of delicious blue and yellow hues
Filled our bedroom, and the times that
A voice from some other world demanded we harken,
And in its ghostly-visage guise
Spun out tales of high romance and telling prophecy.
Come on now, the stars, the stars were shinning for us.

Forgive me, let me return, again, back to this planet.
Years ago I learned the reality -
Buying and selling no easy enterprise.

I know that you take very special delight in the scouring
Rack after rack, then picking through shelves,
Rummaging with a practiced eye the goods
Set for sale upon the tables.
And, to be sure, you have that ability for concentration,
And at level required to be successful at your shopping.

Seems, too, you have that lucky touch,
Procure gold when others see brass,
Buy silver at the spot price of base, white metal.

Lord knows, you love a good deal.
I have never known anyone, who enjoys a low price,
A markdown or a discount more than you.

Even your dessert, it appears, tastes better
When it comes at half-price.

Not to mention that you, my dear, have ever-ready
A discount coupon at point of sale,
Or in your wallet a glossy ticket with its boxed numbers
Whose final punch means a reward in kind for your patronage.

The lyric overcomes me, little hope of any resolve.
Actually whatever the hard inventory I conspire,
No matter my tellingly, strict observations and remarks,
My heart says how lovely you are.

And so it goes, I succumb to the trying to figure.
I try to figure the source of it all,
Then I lapse from an ordinary confidence and come to believe

That I might be ordained and my voice allowed to carry
A radical theme first heard in the plain churches,
Now five centuries ago, my feelings fall backward to the faith,
By God, which held our course predestined in Heaven,
How else to describe these events?
I had to find you, and those inklings of our Destiny
Still remain and animate our hearts.
Wasn't it written?

Yet here is something that causes me consternation;
You appear to truly enjoy my company
When you know that I pay for your dinner.

Lately, that hour, or two, a quick repast, seems,
The only time you have to fit me in your schedule.

I realize that you are accustomed to international travel.
You stuff your backpack to the point your movement stiffens,
Yet heavy baggage means little to you,
Except, of course, should the airline catch
Your true luggage weight
And you must pay up for the extra kilos.

Then there is the situation with your mother,
(All kinds of complexities there!)
A topic I shall have to postpone,
A subject to tackle in another poem, or two.

And as for me, for me,
I sit up half the night writing poetry;
You must know I am lonely.
I seek company,
Your combination of intelligence, beauty and thrift
You, the solace I desire.
I fill the wee small hours of the morning.
Believing that the two pillows I see on the bed
Mean that, though now you travel,
You soon return to sleep and make a home with me.

Dare I say it? Must I resort to cliché.
Tears are streaming down my face.

Forget about it! I shall survive.
No need for undue concern, or worry,
I am probably naturally disposed to being
The gloomier of us two,
Yet I wonder how you push through the day,
How you bring a smile to your face, or roam open and free.

Dash it, Darling!
I am still caught up in the happy bondage;
Then, I wonder if either of us will escape it,
What I have called this thing of ours,
We are tied to it. You know it;
People in some future time and place will think of us.

'In the wee small hours of the morning, '

So the old song goes,
While whole, wide-world, deep asleep,
I'd be yours, if only you would stay,
Be in our bed and home with me.

My love, I drew a line for you.

I have difficulty believing that you remain remote.
Can it be? Who resists the hand of Fate?
Have you now and forever gone your separate way,
Can it be true? How may I come to accept that
You are no longer available to me?