No Help for That | Jackie Clark

Like various places
with the same song,
same seat, the same
following through.
Contained places,
judging gradually
& making note while
sitting under nighttime
skies. By day, one
can either sit facing
the window or away,
sun as supplied advantage.
Somewhere the lawn
is still green & promising.
The you in this poem
is far away & knows
that all the speakers
it has ever met
have left, gone to stand
at another precipice.
Primitive only means
not knowing any better.