A Poem by Austin Allen

There Once Was

A tango that’s also a waltz—
A rhythm that awkwardly halts,
But sways a few hearers
In old barroom mirrors
That say every form has its faults.

*

There once was a gentleman listed
Among those who never existed.
His colleagues politely
Reminded him nightly—
He woke in a sweat and persisted.

I leaf through a yellowing tome.
They must have retired the gloam
In, what, 1910?
Only twilight since then.
I’m homesick for when I missed home.

There once was a State Representative
Who feared that her base would resent it if
She didn’t erase
Both herself and her base.
Till autumn, the plan remained tentative.

I speak out. I feel that I must.
I hear my own spiel with disgust.
I see others make
My egregious mistake.
I speak out. I feel that I must.

The gesture, the comment, the eyeroll—
The germ of a fury gone viral—
The long, glowing dream
Of a scroll or a stream
That seems to twist into a spiral . . .

The ocelot gazed like a tourist.
No monkeys or parakeets chorused.
Fresh radio beats
Floated over the streets
Of the precinct that once was a forest.

The news is the usual crap—
I sigh and lie down for a nap.
Your body and eyes
Repossess me ... I rise.
A town’s disappeared from the map.

Come back while the woods are still wild,
Come back without mortgage or child,
Come riding my way
When the climate in May
Agrees, for one night, to be mild.

There once was a time and a place
Shaved down to the ghost of a trace
Of a scholarly laugh
In the last paragraph
Of a note on an ode to a vase.

I’m losing the thread of my thesis.
I once said out loud to my niece’s
Beloved stuffed penguin,
Whose smile is so sanguine:
“Your whole fucking pole is in pieces.”

They’re fighting a war overseas;
We can’t seem to locate our keys;
A column’s been slaughtered;
Our plants are unwatered;
Our windshield’s beginning to freeze.

There once was a girl at the border.
Her papers were squarely in order.
The quieter guard
Started staring too hard.
There once was a girl at the border.

There once was a noble intent,
A clean breeze, a stabilized rent,
The passenger pigeon,
My grandmother’s kitchen,
Aretha, Pangaea, your scent . . .

There once was a civilization
Whose peak was of modest duration.
An upside-down spire
Juts out of the mire,
Which bubbles a long exhalation.

Austin Allen's debut poetry collection, Pleasures of the Game (Waywiser Press), was awarded the Anthony Hecht Poetry Prize. His poetry has appeared in The Yale Review, The Missouri Review, The Sewanee Review, The Hopkins Review, and 32 Poems. He has taught creative writing at the University of Cincinnati and Johns Hopkins University.