151. WHAT DO YOU THINK IT IS THEN I SHOULD DO?

WHAT DO YOU THINK IT
IS THEN I SHOULD DO?
I want to accuse you of abandoning ideology, charting the
waves or turning your back on my presence. It's as if
I need to do something to validify our both existences.
That calendar-chart you keep is not enough.
Yes, I see, there are wings on the barn and the
chickens do not hatch, but it little matters, even
in agricultural terms, if we dilute the reality of the
truth or the truth itself - that's the sort of poor choice
we've left ourselves with. Yell all you wish at the very
top of your lungs...the sky is not falling and it never will.
-
It was a New Year's Eve when I passed your house, seeing
the broad lights lit up on your porch. The piano was still
in place, but I figured it must be chilly in there. I saw three or
four figures walking through, wine-glasses in hand. They
weren't you, yet they seemed ageless as well. Across the
roadway, in the harbor, some twisted party boat was
cruising by. Music blared and drunk people were singing
along the heavy railing (God forbid drunks should fall into
the frigid waters, I guess). They seemed oblivious to any
reality at all. The good life is like that, I'm told.
-
One solitary, very bright star was in the sky above.
It was almost reflected on the water, and seemed way too
low to be normal. I imagined seeing it reflected, as well,
in your eyes. I almost wanted to cry. For me, lame as ever,
another year had passed and - now, already full of regret -
another one was just beginning.