THE MAXIMS OF MEDIOCRITY

THE MAXIMS OF MEDIOCRITY: Glimpses of Post-Lapsarian Life

1

It is morning. The sky is a powdery white.

Days no longer loom with prospects

that deserve a deeper pigment or pang.

The blues of night and day

no longer creep beyond the whispered wavelengths

of the creaks and sighs of a fond familiar.

Summoned by the poppied aroma of fresh-brewed coffee

you trip over conga drum and African face mask

strewn in your path like thorns

as if their only use now is dishevelment.

2

Once or twice there was a magic in the air

as you thumped on the drum

or stared at yourself in the bathroom mirror

through the mask now showing signs

of dog-chew distraction and cat-scratch curiosity.

Plundering by pets is the most common fate

of objects left in attics and garages

that were once souvenirs of a sacredness

that made you list "Brahman"

before you started drawing blanks

as your most fervent career choice.

3

Yes, I am my brother's keeper

as long as he acts like a brother

and not one more mutha that I know

who votes Republican.

4

There are days you hardly think of God at all

or any of the latest correlatives like Ramana Maharshi

by which he is known. His calling card

with you name on it as partner

is issued to every member of the firm

ament

he founded for days like this when it is

all or nothing

less

--David Federman, Ardmore, September 19, 2010