Mike Marshall is the zeitgeist

The cloud bank settles on the pinkened buttes, 
Looking like the top half of a baloney sandwich.
He’s not watching it, not even looking at it.
Registering it, is perhaps how you’d put it. 
Registering it like he does all of … this. 

He lived through the Linoleum Age,
When stagflation was welcome everywhere
But the dance floor,
Just to witness all of … this, 
Which leaves mute disregard as
The last working astrolabe.

Birds are out in it and still don’t give a damn
About thunderstorms so why should I,
He asked of himself years ago.
He was always able to size up a metaphor,
Especially this one,
So by rote the thunderstorms, the it,
Fattened to mean all of … this.

When you can’t stop it, can’t even slow 
It as it smears across the plains
You find it grieves you no more
Than a lost hand of canasta.

People expect change from a thing such as this, 
Or at least movement of character. 
Yet there he is, gnarled and crimped
Into himself, stock-still —
Roots surrounded by light instead of soil, 
Out of places to go.

One thought on “Mike Marshall is the zeitgeist

  1. I see your comments about the 162 game dodgers. Where were you when the Braves were the undisputed best team in baseball for 14 straight years and won only once? Even Derek Jeter said that greatness shows over 162, after that it’s a tournament

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