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Donald Justice - Nostalgia And Complaint Of The Grandparents
Work rating: Low

Les morts 
C’est sous terre; 
   Ça n’en sort 
Guère. 
   LAFORGUE


      Our diaries squatted, toad-like, 
      On dark closet ledges. 
      Forget-me-not and thistle 
      Decalcomaned the pages. 
      But where, where are they now, 
         All the sad squalors 
      Of those between-wars parlors?— 
Cut flowers; and the sunlight spilt like soda 
      On torporous rugs; the photo 
      Albums all outspread ... 
            The dead 
Don’t get around much anymore. 


      There was an hour when daughters 
      Practiced arpeggios; 
      Their mothers, awkward and proud, 
      Would listen, smoothing their hose— 
      Sundays, half-past five! 
         Do you recall 
      How the sun used to loll, 
Lazily, just beyond the roof, 
      Bloodshot and aloof? 
      We thought it would never set. 
         The dead don’t get 
      Around much anymore. 


      Eternity resembles 
      One long Sunday afternoon. 
      No traffic passes; the cigar smoke 
      Curls in a blue cocoon. 
      Children, have you nothing 
         For our cold sakes? 
      No tea? No little tea cakes? 
Sometimes now the rains disturb 
      Even our remote suburb. 
      There’s a dampness underground. 
      The dead don’t get around 
         Much anymore.
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