A Poem: The Post-Olympic Wasteland

I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD

AUGUST is the cruellest month, breeding
Dreck out of the dead DVR, mixing
Memory and longing, stirring
Dull episodes of Psych with Summer by Bravo.
Winter kept us warm enough, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with Game of Thrones.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Serpentines
With a shower of BMX racers; we stopped in the Velodrome,
And went on in sunlight, into Horse Guards Parade,
And drank coffee, and talked of Lochte for an hour.
Wie geht es Ihnen? Danke, gut.
And when we were children, not allowed to use the remote,
At my cousin’s, he turned on Greco-Roman wrestling,
And I was frightened. He said, Nicole,
Nicole, they’re not mad at each other. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read magazines, much of the night, and my Kindle in the winter.

What are the plotlines that clutch, what entertainment grows
Out of this stony rubbish? Daughter of woman,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where Andy Cohen chirps,
And White Collar gives no shelter, Burn Notice no relief,
And the as-yet-unaired final season of Community no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under Netflix Instant,
(Come in under the shadow of Netflix Instant),
And I will show you something different from either
Covert Affairs striding behind you
Or Sandra Lee rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of Bisquick.
Sprechen Sie Englisch?
Können Sie mir behilflich sein?
Ich verstehe nicht.
Bitte schreiben Sie es auf.
“You gave her Negronis first a year ago;
They called her the Negroni girl.”
 — Yet when we came back, late, from the Negroni garden,
Your glass full, and your throat wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living Single nor The Walking Dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Lassen Sie mich in Ruhe!

Caroline Manzo, famous restauranteur,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in New Jersey,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned pawnshop owner,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Julia Allison, the Lady Who Seeks The Rocks,
The lady of social situations.
Here is the man with three wives, and here the Fourth,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Bachelor. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Ms. Douglas,
Tell her I bring the balance beam myself:
One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a summer smog,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought congestion charges had undone so many.
Sighs, short and bored, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes upon his mobile device.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Bob Costas kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped her, crying “Posh!
You who were with me in the 1990s!
That stiletto you planted last year in your garden,
Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
Or has the ballet flat disturbed its bed?
Oh keep the Becks far hence, that’s friend to men,
Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
You! Mange de la vache enragée”