Common

The American common is no collective or princedom

but privacies of need & pleasure as they intersect

in public spaces, tho the insufferable powers that be

breed their plots behind our backs, thinking us

witless, seemingly blind to their afflicted intentions,

just a bunch of demographic motormouths & screw-ups

to be targeted by commodities traders & search engines—

a marketing niche for every need, stereotypes

tagged by algorithms—here is a typical team

of baton twirlers in an airport bar, each of them clad

in foxy red track suits & tuned-in to the dollhouse

stimulations of pigeon-talking sales reps; there

is a previously undetected aggregation of retirees,

evangelical camp kids, kickass bowlers,

and mothy nuns in starched wimples, for whom

the news of the day means the aging boy-man

Hugh Grant's fear of double chins—neither of

these or any other data dump entirely false,

but so narrow-minded sometimes as to lose sight

of us entirely: the midtown lady in Capris,

a four-square surgeon off-duty & headed out

to play poker, the plumber fly-fishing by the river—

a sky of twilight slate now—not a word written on it.

Source: Standoff (Graywolf Press, 2016)