Two Poems by Jeffrey Skinner
THE MANSION
I understand—the no one cares billboardlooms over the exit ramp; Nancy has lost her placein her novel for the umpteenth time; the Labhas dysplasia.of blank Midwestern sky fallsopen like a journal you buy full of hope,then leave in some drawer where it remains, blank.The universe is bored with my questions,finally. I knew it would happenthough one is nevertheless taken by surprise.So many in real pain remain silent.Lonesome thing in the forest, stay there!Don’t come out! You no longer fascinate.I always begin by speakingfrom exactly where I am. But then, you know—the earth rotates, I am awash in liesand pretension, waving a tiny flag at the moon.If you make the song real it goes onsinging itself, someone said, and that aloneshould be enough. Not like the repetition of money.I buy the premise, but don’t know whereit leaves me. Generally, we expect the poemto circle back, to touch home base—the breathless child crouching by the willow,late-summer evening, shadow on the lawn enlarginginto a mansion. The child gets it, enters.
