Firesider

(Brian Cox and Jeremy Strong)

Is it possible, as you suggest,
that the bound volumes I produced
over decades to some acclaim,
sustained applause in my chosen field
and that clap in the Times, in fact
are just so much mental drizzle,
forgotten before it reached the ground?

You sit in a comfortable chair,
enjoying the pinot gris that I’ve earned
as a credit to my profession,
and cast doubt on the actual value
of tam and tassel encomiums,
my rising from a folding seat
in Syracuse or Hanover:
advancer, human understanding.

You might argue, as numbers have,
that even star people can’t hope
to escape the end times redshift
that’s begun to disaggregate
my achievements and will, you’d grant, take yours.
Who are we to claim exemptions
or fantasize about reprieves
from the fate of Conrad Aiken?
Though you should have at least thirty
to forty years of realized promise
bellying into eminence
before the fire subsides in your grate,
as mine will in sight of the Hudson.

Perhaps you feel a tightness in your throat.
Visual acuity’s down
a point. Where did that apercu go?
Don’t worry about the rug; you may notice
other stains. In my condition,
I’m less bothered by appearances.
There goes the glass, on schedule and unbroken.
Slip betimes. That Housman line. You’d know.