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Saturday With Frank O'Hara
Mid Autumn, Saturday 6.30am
and daybreak is slowly climbing
over the back fence.
Frank O'Hara's poetry is still
echoing in my head from reading
it last night as I cook breakfast
of bacon and eggs.
Later I walk up the street
to the chemist to get
my blood pressure pills
and as I walk, compile arguments
against Postmodernism
and recognise that the notion of
the transcendental
sits at the centre of my beliefs.
I cannot abandon meaning.
Later, I prepare a leg of lamb
for baking along with potatoes,
pumpkin and carrots. Childhood
breaks through as I open
the oven door and a blast
of heat hits my face.
I am persuaded now
by the arguments
of the Universalist or else
there is nothing at all.
After dinner I sit quietly
with my wife. The evening
is coming on and the sound
of crickets filter in through
the front screen door.
I have much to be thankful for
but I feel sad. I am not sure
if it's just the early dark or having
to let go of the last line
of this poem and slip back
into the heavy silence
of myself.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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