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.