FORMULATIONS
Of the mourning dove and the sparrow - are
no different than dreams and wishes. We see
things but for a moment, and then they're gone.
Just outside the window, in this slow, morning
light, someone is entering the picture. An old
man, stuttering a certain lameness as he hobbles
along, still dressed in the old ways: wearing a
dated tie, and a stern, tan jacket with pants of
another fabric - things no one does anymore:
is walking slowly by. On his face, the marks of
a hundred things. As plaintiff perhaps, in his
long lawsuit against this life, does he walk
not in his own defense to prosecute the foibles
and dents of everything which has passed by
him? Are we to listen to his story and rant?
Do years of his own war and famine now ever
matter? Yes, we see things but for a moment,
and then they are gone : leaving lineages,
tales, stories and woes.
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