When That Time Comes

Do not lament when that time comes,

when you stare off and random songs

come in pieces playing through your skull--

after a while the tinny voices

of the song you stayed with for a full verse

become no more than a humming

in the background that slightly tickles

your ears at the back--

when just after you were so impressed

with the energies of the body

it wants to collapse,

when you become all orifice

for taking in, when you have nothing

to give, not even to the neighbor’s son

when he comes over and asks whether he can play

a song on your piano: they might be the simplest,

they might be the most beautiful

precisely because of their simplicity,

times when nothing really matters,

whether it matters or not,

like a dead zone,

a desert, maybe,

in between two warring continents.