Richard Fein

But Suppose Nothing Itself is Nothing
and Distance a Mere Mirage

Suppose all existence is akin to a folded bedsheet
with each layer a dimension snug between two other layers
so all folded layers are aligned into a stack—
each dimension a universe unto itself,
and on each universe walks a contingent me
with all my selves in intimate contact
across a distance that if I tried to measure would cease to exist.
Bedsheet universes folded besides, between, behind, and before me
Thus all my selves parade shoulder to shoulder,
a chorus line of entangled possibilities.
What a choreography if I kick up my legs
to the music of the myriad cosmos,
if only I could hear that music and had legs worth looking at.
Imagine, that the particular me who is here and now
hinges solely on how the celestial linen was, is, or will be folded
by some tireless, mysterious, housekeeper.
Dear old maid, divine laundress,
bedroom goddess who creases all creation,
omnipotent and omnipresent busybody,
I pray that you who putters above and all around me
will eat some messy ambrosia and drip some my way,
while I sleepwalk through your daydream.

Remission of Not So Mortal Sins

“Your conduct will go on your permanent record,”
which meant my misdemeanor would become the mark of Cain,
forever condemning me as the thrower-of-spitballs-during-math.
But then a small mercy, for blackboards were more forgiving,
dispensing a kinder justice to an eight-year old.
And so I received the lighter sentence, to write the sentence,
“Thou shall not throw spitballs in class,”
thirty times, after 3 o’clock dismissal.
Thus another thou-shall-not commandment was added to my lexicon of sins.
How precious it might have been if my teacher were named Mrs. Moses.
But she was merely Mrs. Stern.
My hand endured hard labor, and yet it was still defiant,
inscribing my punishment not left-to-right, but up-and-down,
in almost neat columns—thirty thou’s, then thirty shall’s, then thirty not’s,
as I flouted the rules of proper penmanship.
But left-to-right, or up-and-down, either way the last word was class.
Yet this last class promised absolution.
For then came the approving Stern smile,
followed by the instrument of forgiveness,
a wet sponge washing away my record of sin—
a baptism of cloudy tap water anointing the blackboard.
It was as if I actually paid attention when my nine-to-three weekday mother
tried to reveal the mystery of fractions to all of us.
And sweetest of all, the next day my Stern judge
inscribed in cheery, colored chalk,
“good-morning-class,”
right where I had written my first thou-shall-not.

One-Sided War

My struggle for life resembles Napoleon’s retreat from Russia,
with any victory of mine just a delaying action.
Field Marshall Thanatos is the enemy
and time is his strongest battalion.
His soldiers are legion, resolute, and most of all patient.
I command an army of Benedict Arnolds,
all of them betraying me cell by cell, organ by organ.
Drill sergeant Judas has trained my troops well.
My vision blurs, my back aches,
my fingers and knees stiffen, my hearing grows less acute,
and my taste for anything, including victory, dulls.
There is no Gettysburg to turn the tide.
The fight is trench warfare and I’m retreating trench by trench.
Now in the distance I see the Grim Marshal advancing .
Soon he’ll cut off all retreat.
What will my last day be like—
the blazing heroics at the Alamo
or the quiet dignity at Appomattox?
Either way my standard will be cut from its moorings
to be carried away in the wind.

Fixing the Toilet

The gurgling sound is not really unpleasant,
sort of an ebbing tide on a tropical beach
that lulls me to sleep on the warm sand.
All I need is a little imagination.
The chain inside the tank is a few links too long,
so each flush sucks it under the valve.
Thus the valve sits ajar over the drain
as I rest uneasily on my bed.
I could rise and lift the heavy tank lid
and pull the chain, but I’d soon have to flush again.
I could prune the few links and reattach the chain,
but that requires proper tools and skills.
I could call a pro but it’s eighty a session, minimum.
Worse I’d have to open my door
and let him pass through my disordered rooms
to reach my cluttered bathroom,
where he’d measure my world against the ceramic white.
So the valve totters on the chain,
and I rest uneasily in my bed.
I could yank the chain. I could skillfully snip.
I could hire a pro to adeptly trim.
But some kind of suction fixes my legs to the bed,
while my mind is free to dream.
There’s a warm beach and an ebbing tide.