by K. A. Brace
Where is the fulcrum point that balances our past and present?
We tip toe like awkward ballet swans, fishing for excuses
In a pond that has silted up the days and oily algae coats it green
And sucks up all the oxygen that made life at least a possibility.
Is there something we can do, talk about, imagine that will not
Make more clear the gulf between the being and almost there?
A lover without love, leaves half written letters on the sleeve of
The coat he is going to wear to the wedding of his sorrows later.
He is not thinking that by chance he may just come upon someone
Who has excuses and exceptional clauses in her concept of giving
Up her heart in a waiting gesture, gesticulating as she speaks so he
Will be mesmerized not by words but by the language of her hands.
She wants to hear footsteps up the hall slowly, deftly, anticipating
Their way into the background noise of wall paper hung on night.
As she waits to begin listening an underground window is unlatched,
She looks and sees his reflection, she had held between two mirrors,
Escape into the dark pleasantries of an anonymity only he knows of.
The point is made, the blade is thrust, her quaint honor turns to dust.
Unless an obliging case is made, to stand still and attempt nothing.
Logics divined, say, if there is a balance between our present and our past.
It’s to be found somewhere near our future.