PROSAIC Poem by Peter van Lier

1

Although it's eleven at night, or thereabouts, a girl comes cycling
past. On her own, humming. On the outskirts of the village, in one
of those poorly lit streets.
Been out in the centre, of course.
With a friend that lives here, probably. All gone well.
And now she's cycling home in high spirits, to the
neighbouring small village a couple of kilometres further on, where
her parents will lovingly be waiting for her, dad a bit
sleepy. However, after being asked ‘How did it go?' she is able to
reply completely truthfully ‘Fine' (her boyfriend, son of a close
acquaintance of her father, it appeared, is already working) and
everyone then silently gets ready to go to bed (tomorrow indeed
another day), her head fills happily with loving thoughts that have to
do with procreation,
too many rather than too few.


2

In the distance light gleams: probably a farm.
A place then where people live.
Because even after sunset (before going to bed) mankind
happens to want to be busy with something and then also wishes to
carry out such actions as pleasantly as possible, it has invented
artificial light and
equipped its cosy little houses with it. If people drink something at
home in the evenings, a cup of coffee for example, they because of
the presence of this artificial light (that speck of light there in the
distance, surrounded by immense darkness) do not pour it onto their
clothes but where it belongs: into their mouths.
And they can now rightly make a remark that expresses their
satisfaction (something that people love doing because it has to do
with joy of living):
‘Nothing like a nice cup of coffee,' or something like that.