"FIX QUIET"*

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In whose attic did you find the unopened
Box of starched collars, and while some
Thought it funny you attached one to

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Your cat Sonny on Halloween,
Sonny was fixated on freedom
And casual dress, and he knew

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Everyone would be pointing at him,
Black cat that he is and will continue
To be, in any season there’s an act

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Of sowing, the art of mixing
Two parts winter with three parts spring,
Or the ring you thought you lost vs.

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The ring you thought you found, the six-pack
Of beer you threw to the men manning
The locks, and the waters rose and

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The waters fell, and have you found
The go-round to the argument,
At what point does rigor leave and

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Mortis stay, those in the submarines
Polishing their stiff torpedoes,
Either face the port or turn away

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From the port, your move, you remember
The box of Argo starch on the pantry
Shelf, it’s inherent squeakiness,

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While not the most admired
Attribute in our time, does it make
You think of all the brushes in

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Your life, rigid bristles, soft bristles,
And all the tense staves that seem to go
On forever until they run out of their own music.

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*A line from “Prelude to Objects,” The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens