Poem: Shell Game

Or maybe it's just musical-chairs or perhaps I'm over tired and pessimism is rearing its ugly head.

Shell Game Does it, should it, will it ever end, this messing about? Humanity contemplating its immeasurable self-doubt Groping, bitching, never near enough or satisfied An endless circular shakedown lit from the history of art, finding all too often, the lights turned out, a blank This misadventure, turned into a continuous shell game, every goal seductive, winked at, changed and rearranged A turbaned, dark skinned slight of hand Skillful, lightning quick, happiness is there, love beneath the middle shell, then gone Promised once again, always grinning, the deftness unexplained Move the camera back, pull me from neediness, un-stack the deck, haul away the media fix, lower the flag, stop all the push and pull of expectation, the hanging in there, catching up and falling back Resolve me to another less troubled and simpler tribal culture, all babies valued, held and breast fed by any mother who’s got milk Hide away my lostness there, where all skin touches skin Believing in another god and worshipful of sun and rain and wind I need the black majesty of night to cover me, aflame with stars, to await each dawn without appointment Smell the smell of dust rising A whole community of eyes that find my soul and nod agreement My dinner table groans with choice I’m overstuffed and starving Too little nourishment, too much wine, I beg to call the check, pay the bill no matter what the price, leave a tip and run Provisioned, where the linen isn’t starched And taste a simpler fare, devoid of crystal, no expensive silverware A more communal meal

This poem is included in Jim Freeman's poetry collection THE SMELL OF TWEED AND TOBACCO available here in print or as an e-Book in your favorite formats.