I Ask You
by Billy Collins
What scene would I want
to be enveloped in
more than this one,
an ordinary night at the
kitchen table,
floral wallpaper pressing
in,
white cabinets full of
glass,
the telephone silent,
a pen tilted back in my
hand?
It gives me time to think
about all that is going
on outside--
leaves gathering in
corners,
lichen greening the high
grey rocks,
while over the dunes the
world sails on,
huge, ocean-going,
history bubbling in its wake.
But beyond this table
there is nothing that I need,
not even a job that would
allow me to row to work,
or a coffee-colored Aston
Martin DB4
with cracked green
leather seats.
No, it's all here,
the clear ovals of a
glass of water,
a small crate of oranges,
a book on Stalin,
not to mention the odd
snarling fish
in a frame on the wall,
and the way these three
candles--
each a different height--
are singing in perfect
harmony.
So forgive me
if I lower my head now
and listen
to the short bass candle
as he takes a solo
while my heart
thrums under my shirt--
frog at the edge of a
pond--
and my thoughts fly off
to a province
made of one enormous sky
and about a million empty
branches.
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