Shepherd’s Pie
By Matt Hart
All of us, unraveled,
on a park bench eventually.
Maybe. But that shadow’s for later.
Right now, there’s a sheep
in my hair, a galaxy in my shoes.
It’s an echo of New York,
so to open. Meanwhile,
my friends come and go
wondering what art still is
and ever was or might be.
We think it’s a process
of resurrecting every day
to be a new version
of whatever we are.
We go for a beer, but
it’s not as easy as it once was.
Now it’s all experimental. It’s four
small beers and we get to taste
each one and vote for the one
we want to taste forever.
But nothing tastes forever.
Nothing stands the test of rhyme,
especially a bad one, which is also
a pun. Everything goes bye-bye.
Even yon ancient mariner.
“Sorry, my man, I’ve a wedding to get to—”
As for taste, I’ve never understood
taste in the aesthetic sense,
which is obvious. Always drawn
to the gaudy, noisy, messed-up oblivious.
I vote for the beer that’s the most
inexplicable. I vote for the park bench
with the broken back leg,
the overlapping tags of graffiti to read.
Then I go to see some paintings,
but all they are is music,
which I decide on the spot is a bonus.
One of my friends needs urgent care,
so I take him and he’s afraid.
I am also afraid. I am always afraid.
But the sheep don’t notice
my dark-matter shoes,
the laces untied so I’m tripping.
And still I’m on the lookout,
guarding my loves. It’s always
the same, and it’s always
something different. I sit
on the high corner
of the park bench, broken,
and tie the loose ends
temporarily.
