by Eli Mandel | Saint Ann’s School | Brooklyn, NY

a picturesque sea, but the fisherman doesn’t care;
it’s just another day of fish in the nets,
hoary sea salt and frying sun.
the endless loops of boredom twist—
evening, he comes home to fish for supper;
morning, a watery dawn drowns the moon in monotony.

the painting despises the gallery’s monotony.
these days nobody bothers to care—
their minds are on their suppers,
but she hungers too, and casts her subtle nets—
a flash here, there a twist
in the paints, trying to force a glance at the tints of her sun.

until now, the soldier realizes, he hasn’t really felt the sun.
over time, even the foreign vowels have begun to pound in monotony.
after all the gunshots and cries, the day’s curious twist,
he doesn’t think he can care;
he’s caught in a nightmare’s nets—
who knows, he wonders, if he might die by supper?

the boy is waltzing home for supper.
his pupils catch the last of the reluctant sun
while he, too, lingers, avoiding his mother’s nets,
that he might not suffer monotony—
all that purposeless, nagging care—
but rather glean a new shade, a new twist.

the full-smelling winds of harvest time twist.
the goose looks for mellow grasses for her supper,
but no more can she be at leisure, without a care—
she feels the harsher aura of the sun,
she sees the grayer land of human monotony.
her forebears feared just nets!

it’s that time of day: the wife’s caught in her nets.
through the kitchen, smells and vapors twist—
same-old, same-old, same monotony.
she makes the motions of supper,
but through the steamy window, she watches the sun—
I’ll run away with you, she says. no one would care.

god takes a care for his supper.
some wine before the sun goes down—he pulls out the cork with a twist.
he doesn’t feel his own nets, but he’s cinched in monotony.