I have been one excitable heart
and a system of veins and arteries,
one circulation among thousands
weaving along the midway
at the Texas State Fair, right
hand in the tight back pocket
of Elisabeth’s jeans and in my left
a bouquet of pink cotton candy.
I’ve been one distracted ego
in the midst of a seething crowd
as we disembark at the stadium
in authorized jerseys with the athletes’
names on our backs: Strider,
Acuña, Riley, shibboleths
and totems. I’ve been one stomach
cooking away at unlimited theater
popcorn while dozens of strangers
simmer darkly beside me
and the ooze of designer light
on a massive screen depicts a heroic
jawline and a bead of delicious
sweat as it transits the heroine’s spine.
I was one set of ears and a brain
last night, at the middle-school
chorus recital, where, I suspect,
the children’s singing inspired us all
to think about other things.
I recalled a phrase from Psalm 1,
“the assembly of the righteous,”
and for a moment, the mass I imagined,
studiously fondling hymnals
in pews of incomparable stiffness,
seemed more exhausting
than a middle-school chorus recital—
at least I wasn’t there. Which,
I guess, is part of the reason
I wouldn’t actually be invited
to sit in that good congregation.
As the medley of Disney numbers
dragged on, though, I pictured
a group in someone’s backyard,
a few families at a picnic table,
fairy lights strung overhead,
some blankets spread in the fescue.
They’re eating watermelon,
or the kids are, spitting the seeds
as far as they can, juice staining
the necks of their T-shirts.
A woman tries telling a story
but keeps getting interrupted
by laughter, a good portion
of which is her own. Citronella
candles to keep off mosquitos.
Straightened clothes hangers
by the firepit for marshmallows later.
A real question asked by someone
who knows you and wants
to know more. Bats silhouetted
over the pine trees when the host
pulls out his guitar. The truth is
I would be invited, I am—they ask
the whole block—but something
keeps me away. I’m mostly too busy
to join them, other places
to be, and, even if the Frosts
bring supplies for the s’mores
and Carla provides the watermelon,
there are fees I would need to pay,
laughing, singing, confessing myself
with my one unsociable mouth.
George David Clark is the author of Newly Not Eternal (LSU) and Reveille (Arkansas), which won the Miller Williams Prize. He is coeditor, with Lew Klatt, of Playing with Fire: Christian Poets Reflect on Faith and Practice, forthcoming from Baylor. Since 2011, he has edited 32 Poems.
Photo by Will Myers on Unsplash
