ginger mint lemonade
The way they look and see and go. Unable to slip a word in edgewise. Everything all at once but different times; missed tones in the afternoon. Expecting all receiving naught. Or aught. But chancing not to see.
Finding out after the fact. A decade or so. Time not wasted, trim-waisted, but lost. Everywhere a door slightly slammed or a future’s paths uncrossed.
Peregrinations. Relative importunities. Imputed fragilities, and frailties. Ah so.
not at home
At home in the evening, planning escapades. The books read and unread gathering coffee stains and toast crumbs. The at one time unimaginable, commonplace.
Things moving slowly. The sense of progress, though: gears turning, ticking well-oiled shiny. Intangible, unavoidable, inescapable. Backed into imagined corners that flatten and fade and open onto unexpected vantages.
Yet continuance – a stay or mainstay. Listening to Brahms again. Offering avoidances, but acting anyhow.
The way the light comes in through the window is soothing and satisfying. The nightclub pulsing somnolent below. And everywhere are bridges connecting to the known and unknown and unknowable. And I am sleepy.