See No Evil
by: Billy Collins
No one expected all three of them
to sit there on their tree stumps forever,
their senses covered with their sinuous paws
so as to shut out the vile, nefarious world.
As it happened,
it was the one on the left
who was the first to desert his post
uncupping his ears,
then loping off into the orbit of rumors and lies,
but also into the realm of symphonies,
the sound of water tumbling over rocks
and wind stirring the leafy domes of trees.
Then the monkey on the right lowered his hands
from his wide mouth and slipped away
in search of someone to talk to,
some news he could spread,
maybe something to curse or shout about.
And that left the monkey in the middle
alone with his silent vigil,
shielding his eyes from depravity's spectacle,
blind to the man whipping his horse,
the woman shaking her baby in the air,
but also unable to see
the russet sun on a rough shelf of rock
and apples in the grass at the base of a tree.
Sometimes, he wonders about the other two,
listens for the faint sounds of their breathing
up there on the mantel
alongside the clock and the candlesticks.
And some nights in the quiet house
he wishes he could break the silence with a question,
but he knows the one on his right
would not be able to hear,
and the one to his left,
according to their sacred oath--
the one they all took with one paw raised--
is forbidden forever to speak, even in reply.
It's so easy to be one of these monkeys--ignoring all the evils and cruelties of the world. Being self-centered. Humans have selective memories. We erase the shit that hurts us and cling to what makes us happy. This fact explains how we ended up with Donald Trump running for President of the United States again. Mitch McConnell--see no evil. Lindsey Graham--hear no evil. However, Republicans do have a habit of speaking evil. A lot.
In a way, though, we all have a habit of looking away from tragedy and disaster. One of the first pieces of advice I received on my first trip to New York City was not to look at or even acknowledge homeless people. I understand this warning, but I had a hard time following it. At the end of most days in the Big Apple, I had no loose change or dollar bills left in my pockets.
I live in a country where school shootings happen with alarming frequency. In fact, they're so common that most people I know barely acknowledge them anymore. Tragedy has become as common as meatloaf. Mass shootings sometimes aren't even headline news. The monkey oath at work again.
People say we have a homeless "problem" where I live. When I'm working at the library, I encounter a lot of homeless people, especially in the winter when temperatures are brutally (almost fatally) cold in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. I don't ignore these individuals, but I also don't go out of my way to help them out. Sure, I donate canned goods to food drives and organize fundraising events for local shelters. I could do a lot more. Maybe I have a little bit of the monkey in me, as well.
I wrote with one of my best poet pals again this morning. Worked for half a day at the library. Drove home, did some laundry, prepared for the online poetry workshop I was supposed to lead tonight. (Nobody showed up for the workshop, so I went for a walk with my wife, instead.) Now, I'm watching the Paris Olympics.
I'm a lucky guy. I have family and friends who love me. A roof over my head. Food in the fridge. Jobs that almost pay all my bills. A really cute puppy. Good health. It's so easy to take all these blessings for granted.
Saint Marty, though, isn't taking anything for granted tonight, including the fan that's keeping him cool right now.
Unclean
by: Martin Achatz
He was homeless, obvious to anyone
who saw his dirty denim shorts,
ripped tee shirt, shoes that weren't
really shoes anymore but rather
fabric and rubber bound to his feet
with leather laces crisscrossed
from his toes to ankles, looking
like tiny boa constrictors. Men, women,
children gave wide berth, cast glances
at him as they passed, the younger
merely curious, the older with a pallor
of fear in their cheeks, as if they expected
him to start banging a tin cup for money
or food or in warning, like in Biblical
times when lepers rang bells, called out
"Unclean!" as strangers approached.
I passed him several times as I worked
through the library, him paging through
a book that contained pictures of finches
and jays and raptors, his lips moving
silently over the text as if he was
cramming for a final exam. I never
spoke with him or offered him coffee
or maybe one of the apples from my lunch.
I just let him sit there, a solitary island
filled with the cries of birds and slaps
of emerald and vermillion wings.
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