A September Verse 2013

Existentialism Revisited

I never believed in the wisdom of living for today

because today always seems as much an illusion

as yesterday and tomorrow

Unless what they really meant was to live without self-consciousness

which only Zen monks and Zorbas

and Grandmothers do

My Grandmother was like that:

never needing to reflect on her purpose in life

or whether life had any meaning

the question itself just non-sense

like Red Skelton on the black and white

in her sparse living room

Her later years not so much golden

as coal black and bleak with loneliness

the only purpose left her

was lighting candles in front of the Virgin on Sundays

and frying chicken wings for Frankie

whenever he stopped in to say by his presence that he hadn’t forgotten

She was content to fry chicken then on the spur of the moment

and before you knew it she’d be shoving a plate in front of you

saying, “Mangia, mangia”

and feeding you stories along with Italian bread and cold eggplant

and instant coffee

stories about the meaning of her life

I’m not sure that chicken wings are the meaning of life

no matter how crispy and juicy and salty

and I’m equally uncertain about lighting candles

in front of stone cold Virgins

who would likely think it silly even if they

could really answer our prayers

Now, at sixty-five, I find fault with gardens

and pick off vegetables like I want to be done with it

and I curse libraries because they have too many books

and I get angry at beaches if the wind is too windy or the sun is not sunny

and I pick off friends and acquaintances and strangers alike

who disappoint or annoy me with their tedium

and I close more doors now than I open

(c) 2013 Frank DeFrancesco