Postprandial Politics

Somewhere after lasagne
and several bottles
of deep red wine
the old restlessness arrived
with spicey overtones of frustration.

My mind impinged upon
by the faint rustlings
of an archetypical
politcal conversation.

Years of fidgeting
have taught me one thing
and perhaps no more,
action, movement, work
defeat those devilish desperations-

so I got up and
washed the dishes.

The men eventually
left the women
to themselves
and sought me out.

The conversation slowly rolled
along the familiar themes.
The word dialectic was
mentioned disproportionately and
my guts began to contract.
I attempted to breathe normally.

I was professing my ignorance,
a nod to Socrates perhaps,
when someone raised his voice
to speak over me.
He had the balls
to say he knew it all,
literally all,
regarding some conflict,
centuries old and
half a world away.

I didn't let that bullshit pass.

I imagined a movie,
the well lit kitchen,
from inside, zoom out,
zoom out through the window,
the shot hovering there above,
revealing 4 men in a kitchen,
gesticulating, drinking wine.
The voices can be heard
as a vague series of sounds,
altering waves of volume
but not as intelligible conversation.

4 men in a kitchen,
no spades turning the earth,
a shoulder to no grindstone.

We could have been
discussing who was
the best heavyweight
of all time-
same difference.

(Cassius Clay)