The Usual: A Tribute

The Usual: A Tribute

(“He had an inestimable appreciation of the usual,”

said Henry James of Anthony Trollope)

Our hare is on the hillside; it legs along our streets,

our hare is nimble, fawn and lean,

will dance upon a tambourine

then jump clean over whom it meets,

to bow and say “Excuse you all,”

for neighbours, this is usual,

     and if I blink I’ll lose you all,

     for genius in this usual

     has cypress ears and daddy legs

     and wears them to confuse you all.

Black admirals will not keep still.

Like letters from The Book Of Kells

they flit with zero decibels

between my hillside’s sclerophyll,

then pause upon my jacket cuff

with eye-liner and powder-puff.

     They flit and puff with fancy ruff,

     their manners are all plain enough,

     Keats’ antennae on gantry legs,

     I fear they gossip on my cuff.

We’re reading Trollope, novelist

whose warden plucked imagined strings

when he felt overwhelmed by things,

who might suggest (though not insist)

the usual’s where we’re dumped or blissed.

     Dumped or blissed, stumped or kissed,

     a hare is dancing on the gist.

     And does that usual have legs?

     enquires Trollope, novelist.