Tinnitus and the Many Unnamed

TINNITUS AND THE MANY UNNAMED

Some pulled the job of descending 

in fire, offering heavenly condolences 

to some poor schmuck fallen face-down 

in dust. Others pull children 

from cars and all that classic stuff

you genuinely want to believe if 

it weren’t for the questionable source

of your aunt, who was—bless her soul—

sole witness. Of course, 

if there are legions there are others

as well who deserve a pour, so here’s 

to the many faithful whose work 

will never be acknowledged as anything 

other than the way of things: 

Tinnitus, whose ceaseless ringing 

of his silver bell tunes his chosen 

to the still, small voice forever running

beneath the discord; the night shift, waging

their tireless war against the logical 

interpretation of things, those little

avant garde chefs of the unconscious

handing up their delicacies on odd-shaped platters; 

and even—as much as they annoy me 

in such matters—here's, too, to the many 

nameless ones who blind the children

to a few, key toys during clean-up, bearing

our midnight curses as we stub our toes. 

May you forever serve to remind us

to tread slowly through the dark of the living

room as we follow the craving

that wakes us in the night,

picking our stumbling way to the feast.