Certainly the dead watch us, but not
as opera, nor as the Great Grey Owl
tunes in gophers underground.
We are their daytime television.
— “Edge of Night” by Don McKay
Improbable concept—the dead
watching. Through pearls?
Empty eye-sockets?
Specially constructed binoculars, or more
improbable still,
through an interest in character and plot?
But why should they take to people-watching
rather than to dry-walling, glass-blowing
or manufacturing shot?
Certainly the dead watch us but not
daily. They can never know
when they’ll be busy doing other things,
or falling asleep, dreaming
they jump rope among asphodels
or climb Yggdrasil, the World Tree:
Or, perhaps, she—showered and cool—
prepares breakfast as usual
while he rolls over and yawns.
They don’t watch us (or not as a rule)
as opera, nor as the Great Grey Owl
strix nebulosa , the grey ghost
or phantom owl, who sees through his ears
or hears through his eyes or does
whatever is required for finding food
in the snow,
who makes no sound
beyond the whoooosh as he flies
and the whooo—ooo—ooo as he calls
and—unlike the yellow-eyed Great Horned—
tunes in gophers underground.
And we are certainly not opera for them because
the music of the spheres will drown out
Norman, Callas, Vickers, Josè van Dam
and each and every note of Wagner’s Ring.
But “soaps” are under the radar
and, unless I am mistaken,
we are well cast,
act like pros, are word perfect,
and perform our parts with passion.
We are their daytime television.