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Landlocked
Alan Feldman
so archetypal(原型的) in its split-level, clapboard(护墙板) ordinariness,
one house after another like a crowd gathered haphazardly
at an accident site? And why explore the deafening
blandness of the little streets with fenced-in yards,
Ti prego, rubami il cuore! -- I wheel the baby, who will not quiet
unless she's rolling along through a landscape, however dull,
a child who will grow up some day with the sole ambition
of leaving home. And why keep pretending
the sunlight gives the brick walls a ruddy, Hopper-esque gravitas? --
It's a dullness that approaches yoga, a meditation,
can't wake me -- sleep-laden, like a boat covered with a tarp --
with the side-tracked stroller, in a pebble-strewn jiggling
the baby seems to need for her peace. Ah, this do-nothing
self-abnegation of walking the streets of Natick, Massachusetts,
and its neighborhoods -- as if life has hardly emerged yet from sleep,
that first sleep, and -- like an infant struggling to turn over --
the soul wants to buy a ticket to anywhere
that's out of town, like Venice, say, where the lacy facades
weep into the tarnlike byways and boulevards,
and there's a music of world-weary, self-extinguishing tragedy
to fight with the sun-spangles on the water
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