I Like John Ashbery

[title]

I often think of that imaginary time
when it was much more clear
how I should go about living in the world, or better
not think, just follow an invisible
yet unmistakable plan through the heart
of the city, a road laid in golden light
direct from the setting sun that leads
right up Broadway to the steps of the library,
its bronze-domed roof tinted red and the names
emblazoned there, Plato & all the rest, floating as shades
of purple and gray, their marble façade throwing a long shadow
getting longer, clamming the air with knowledge
cool as a tomb & just about as useful
when the pressure drops a thundering rain,
obscures even the night within a fog, here
everything once so clear
to Descartes – who saw,
really saw what he knew,
what he was – ducks into hiding
behind the surface of things, into apartment buildings
where the party continues, you know the one
we meant to attend but missed
again
last weekend when we arrived at a different
address, went the wrong way down 4th Street,
and got caught in crosstown traffic for hours,
stuck in a cab, with a jackknifed semi,
immobilized, blocking our view of the water.