The Days

by Steven Rea

If the days run away
like wild horses over the hills
(per Charles Bukowski) wouldn’t it be
possible to do a round-up, like
some old cowboy movie,
riding out across the far chaparral
to lasso the stampeding
steeds — not to corral them for slaughter (per John
Huston’s The Misfits, but to bring the horses
back to the ranch and give each snorting beast a name:
The Day We Married
The Day We Gave Birth
The Day of the Double Sundogs
The Day at the Top of the Mountain
The Day with the Perfect Coffee and Pie
The Day Two Beatles, John and Paul, Walked
Through Central Park and You Were Just Hanging Out
There, Early Morn.

Of course, it’s entirely impractical
to name the horses in such manner: “Whoa, The Day
We Pulled Into a Little Vermont Town
and Crossed the River on a Bridge Bursting
With Flowers. I said Whoa there!”
Or “Giddy Up, The Day Dad Drove His Car
the Wrong Way Round the Roundabout! Let’s Go!”

The days do run away, kind of like wild
horses, and most of them—the days, that is—fade
into the frayed fabric of a lifetime,
harsh light and dismal dark doing their work
on the timeline, the fine line between memory and —
what’s the opposite? Amnesia?
An empty glass?

The days, the daze, the gaze full of fire, ferocious,
or full of absolutely nothing at all.
“Tlock tlock, let’s trot out of here The Day The Sky
Turned So Gray and Baffling and Cruel. Tock, tock.
Hi-ho!”