"A Critique of Virtue"
Convoluted as a lanyard knot, goodness needs
a master’s hands for tying. Yet tug a little
on the best-hitched cord, and fibers slip
like grannies strung by children.
I’ll put it plain: the common man pronounces
hawser or marlinespike with the tongue
of a seasoned mariner; but give him a pint or two,
or loop a coil of trepidation around his neck,
and he can hardly tie his shoes.
In a natural state, this man lies unraveled
on the deck. His fingers prefer the slick
of other flesh to the scratch of hemp or sisal.
Return him from a day of pulling abstract fish
from turbid waters. Walk him through the door
to where his family sits, famished for knotlessness,
for junk food, text message and TV: the sweet
and simple pap of resignation.
Do not make him retire to the garage, to work
his tortuous knots in solitude. Let him lay
his slack lines on the sofa. Let him rest.
© 2007 Fred Longworth
Follow this link to comment
|
|
