Unused Life


Unused Life Marc Mosko, 1998
I do not use this corner of my loft much. It has its own light. It is that far away corner. Along one wall from it is a corner I use a lot. That's where the front door is. Along the other wall is another oft watched L. That's where the TV is. Looking at this corner is different. It has no use but to keep those things for which I have no use. At least not now. When I look at the receding lines, I look inwards. It is a backwards corner. The lines go away, but lead toward me. This south-east corner sits alone, laden with books. Book on shelves, records in sleeves, boxes tucked away. This lonely corner has so much, but I feel a stranger. A foreigner visiting a small provincial haunt. I am looking in, seeing distant looks, locals content among themselves. Rarely do they look back. Lost in there is the first book I ever read for myself. Or maybe that book is just lost.	Maybe I avoid this corner. Three shelves of forgotten lore sit there. Here is my copy of Latin Epigraphy. A valuable tome back when I was employed translating first century funeral inscriptions for one with an all too common Latin name. What is it like to be so unused? Fourteen years ago, in Florence, I bought three leather book covers. One, tanned to a wooden marble, has a lion rampant. The other two, equally worked, adorned by gold paint on lioncel, And red and yellow and green, sit side by side, inseparate. Immediately, they found homes on three volumes I loved. But that was when I had time - time to lose myself in fiction and fantasy. When wasting my time did not seem like a waste. When non-productive hours, days, were not non-productive. When there was no productive. The corner is cold. Cold like mom used to keep the house. She, who grew up in U.P. Michigan, never noticed. She must have wondered why we huddled close on the couch, Why we wore blankets like Roman togas. Now, I avoid that corner of my past. Maybe because I cannot fit well with those angles. Maybe I am not so young minded. Why does this corner haunt me so much? I wish I did not know how lonely it feels.

Unused Life
Marc Mosko, 1998

I do not use this corner of my loft much.
It has its own light.
It is that far away corner.
Along one wall from it is a corner I use a lot.
That's where the front door is.
Along the other wall is another oft watched L.
That's where the TV is.

Looking at this corner is different.
It has no use but to keep those things for which I have no use.
At least not now.
When I look at the receding lines, I look inwards.
It is a backwards corner. The lines go away, but lead toward me.

This south-east corner sits alone, laden with books.
Book on shelves, records in sleeves, boxes tucked away.
This lonely corner has so much, but I feel a stranger.
A foreigner visiting a small provincial haunt.
I am looking in, seeing distant looks, locals content among themselves.
Rarely do they look back.

Lost in there is the first book I ever read for myself.
Or maybe that book is just lost.

Maybe I avoid this corner.
Three shelves of forgotten lore sit there.
Here is my copy of Latin Epigraphy.
A valuable tome back when I was employed translating first century funeral
inscriptions for one with an all too common Latin name.

What is it like to be so unused?
Fourteen years ago, in Florence, I bought three leather book covers.
One, tanned to a wooden marble, has a lion rampant.
The other two, equally worked, adorned by gold paint on lioncel,
And red and yellow and green, sit side by side, inseparate.
Immediately, they found homes on three volumes I loved.
But that was when I had time - time to lose myself in fiction and fantasy.
When wasting my time did not seem like a waste.
When non-productive hours, days, were not non-productive.
When there was no productive.

The corner is cold. Cold like mom used to keep the house.
She, who grew up in U.P. Michigan, never noticed.
She must have wondered why we huddled close on the couch,
Why we wore blankets like Roman togas.

Now, I avoid that corner of my past.
Maybe because I cannot fit well with those angles.
Maybe I am not so young minded.

Why does this corner haunt me so much?
I wish I did not know how lonely it feels.

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