Until We Find Our Coats/ poem by Timothy Brennan

Will we ever be satisfied again?
We who've lost not only our tail-parts
but the chrome plated majuscules
our parents wore to cocktail parties
in the sixties. You can still find 
one now and then online
rust breaking through the shine. 

The past squints through binoculars
as we approach in our sleighs; 
tries to decide who is in charge,
us or the horses. I'd bet on the horses, 
beautiful and sleek, enveloped in mist 
after a run through the woods.
Must they be replaced? 

Today, everyone talks design 
that devalues plausibility, 
erodes the fragile borders 
of understanding
that began to form
with the first realization
that day would return 
after night.

Random-access militias 
kick down the door and finish my breakfast. 
I don't complain much; they so impress
weaklings in short pants
and we'll probably see more like them.
More locksmiths too, when the convoys arrive.

And that change is bound to come. 
The noise and vibration will likely 
keep us up all night 
hugging the floor 
if we still have one. 
By the way, did you notice
how oil slides down the grand facade
without ruining her majesty's onion patch?

Sleep would be a dream about now.
Please phone if you get this note.


Timothy Brennan is a poet, painter and woodworker who has lived and worked in San Francisco, Brooklyn, and now New Paltz, NY, where he has been renovating his old house for over thirty years. 

He helps Susan Chute curate the reading series, Next Year’s Words which includes voices from the mid- Hudson Valley community, the State University in New Paltz, NY, and beyond.

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