Sunday, October 18, 2009
We talk about your close call –
How my right hand reached yours
Taking hold and pulling you up.
You bring up this moment and call it luck.
I hiss in my inside voice that falling would do you good
And that a big fall could not come soon enough.
On the surface we talk about the circus and the greasy food
I judge you in private and begin filling with emptiness
Nothing will happen this time- nothing happened before.
Something needs to happen I scream
As I ache for cause and effect and dream of consequence.
The pokes in our chatter pluck eyes from another insight.
You talk for five contiguous minutes of your changes.
I reach for the cord on the window blinds
And tug down to let some light in.
It’s true, it’s true that I do not know how to begin.
My ears closed to your chatter long before this instance.
We have but exchanged gas in dark rooms like these for years.
As you stand to leave
You extend your hand and I take it,
This time coming to know
That you and I may never meet.