The Gatherers

by Peter Lopatin (May 2020)

 

Wooded Landscape, Karl Schmidt-Rottluff

 

Off the shoulder of the road, three men

with sharp-pointed poles stab at trash

like spear-fishers in a coral cove.

 

They carry black sacks tied to their waists for

their day’s catch, which they slide raw and

ungutted off the poles. I could do well

 

at a job like that. I like to gather

discarded things: phrases that have

fallen out of favor, unanswered messages,

 

unspoken misgivings, forgotten heroes,

furtive glances, florid metaphors,

infinitesimal probabilities, the best

 

of intentions, caution thrown to the winds,

moments that have slipped by unnoticed,

hopes torn to shreds. I might succeed

 

at a job like that, following every

turn of road, scanning the ground,

doubling back, knowing my sack will never be full.

 

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