The Lunch Hour Madrigals I

Steven Velardo

The questions begin like a solitary figure
Lumbering across the New Hampshire field
In the blinding white of a late March snow
His eyes focused on the lamppost
Just beyond the Borden farm,
hands in his pockets
The tails of a black coat blow in the wind
There are many ways to search for truth
You must be willing to die a little
And the young girl, her face darkened
By the moon of another country
Her speech still unsure of what America means
She is waiting, for the light to turn red
On the corner of Atlantic and Tresser Blvd.
High tide at 7:00 on a Monday makes sense
Like the burned out abandoned car
On the Henry Hudson highway - the broken windows
Of necessity and greed - there was a struggle
A man cried for help or watched from that 9th story window
Motionless, bound by duty or some higher calling - chance
Or fear and the bare branch partially obstructs the view
Of the Long Island Sound just outside my window
I no longer feel sorry for it,
Or the young girl, or the man roaming
the New England countryside on Christmas Eve,
still sure there is somewhere He should be,
certain there is still room in the darkness for a birth
It was easier when I was certain. I no longer know
If I am writing the stories, or the stories are writing me.
The motion I felt in her eyes - was it there? Or did I create it.
The way, "hello" fell from her lips, here eyes lifting a baby
From a stroller, my mind racing, my ears failing me again.
I no longer trust sound - I can't see what's behind the words.
But soon night will fall, and men will lumber in strange places
Women will lie, and search for someone to listen
And the stories will fall to the fields of Exeter,
The sidewalks of Stamford, drifting into uncertainty
Or a slumber, waiting for the cautious observer to
Take the time to write them all down.