(title) Same As It Ever Was
from 'Once in a Lifetime' by Talking Heads
Day One of mid-semester break
I drive my wife to the chemist
and wait outside, listening to
Talking Heads live, a CD
my daughter burnt for me. The footpath
is a thin one, with signposts interrupting
its width. I tell you this because
along comes a Shoprider – an upmarket
gopher with tall zipped-up plastic walls
front, back and sides
like an oblong of shower curtains
driven through the drizzle of
a spring day to park outside the chemist.
Inside, a shaky hand unzips a side panel
carefully. A tall and stooped man, rickety on
frail legs, balances on his walking stick
and steps out, then just as carefully
zips the panel back up. You can't be
too careful nowadays.
_Same as it ever was..._
He travels slowly on slippered feet,
his stick as third leg.
Now I'm sorry for him, now
I'm pleased for his mobility. He's not
much older than myself. Down the path
facing me come two lads,
twenty or so, cocky, sure
of their balance and future.
_Same as it ever was..._
Grandma, hail and hearty,
grandson's hand in hers,
moves closer to the wall to
let the lads pass. They don't notice.
A teenage schoolgirl walks passed, legs
sure and swift, hips aswivel, and as she passes
she bends and waves at the little boy, hips
not missing a beat. The big boys wave
back, mockingly. They know
her sister, the one with the rose tattoo
that needs pruning. But she's
younger, standing impatiently at
the traffic lights. C'mon, c'mon. She
balances on one leg, then the other.
_Same as it ever was..._
Suddenly a burst of young children
runs down the street, whooping and
waving their arms, streamers in
school colours flying. The old man in
the chemist's doorway
stops to let them pass. No respect for elders,
no respect for anything any more.
_Same as it ever was..._
His Shoprider has left a geometric lake
on the footpath and one whooping boy takes
a tumble, no worse than
last week on the oval but now
it's a fright and he lies, rubbing
his coccyx, wet eyes above his nervous
smile. The chemist girl comes out
and checks on him. The old man waves
his stick to Shoo!, them away.
As he carefully zips up a panel,
his stick hangs on his arm,
a Gene Kelly stance he learnt so
long ago he has forgotten.
_Same as it ever was..._
I am watching them from
the prompter's pit, playing
their roles so truly. Just last week
a first year wrote an essay
calling people of an uncertain age
'people in the Middle Ages'.
I spent some time explaining
the difference. The Shoprider shakes
remaining drops off as my wife leaves
the chemist, shuffling packages.
I start the engine. She
turns Talking Heads down. 'This'd cost
a pretty penny without a pension card.'
I steer out and over a speed hump,
windows tight against the wind.
*
All comments welcome. This is in progress.
--
Andrew
http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/aburke/
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