Airports undergoing renovations
once carpeted floors now bare
waiting in half slumber for some
distraction, a newspaper or paperback
to occupy the sleepiest moments
on the verge of falling under the spell
of the reassurances of time machines
humming softly in background corners.
The question arises of Where am I now?
and Where else is there left to go?
A beat of a drum in cadence, one two
three four, when will the tattoo stop,
or change to another beat…perhaps
in time to the throb of a heart shared
with another, promising not to break it
or cause the pattern to stop.
© Sometimes, 2016
Staring into the distance, filmy
gauze in shades of purplish red
or sheer material affording the
glance of a loved one, with veiled eyes
shaped like small mackerel, silvery
scales glittering like sequins sewn
precisely in random patterns….
Or writing vague verse in a parchment
notebook, searching for rhymes
to join other words to combine dream
sequences stretching into the distance
past velvet rivers and secluded corners
in great ovals. Or sturdy black sofas with
awful cushions against grungy corduroy
fabric of a yellowish chartreuse.
The woman in black is crying now,
softly, not at all definite or dedicated
shuddering breaths….only silent tears
soaking into her rosy-red scarf.
When someone is crying, why do strangers care?
Studiously ignoring or just not-seeing
the crying person. We don’t ask why,
or even speculate about the cause of grief
or heart-break because it would be rude
to indicate having seen the anguish
of a fellow human. Or is it that we
don’t really care, because to care would imply
concern and thus involvement… a kindly
comment, or offer of help? Chances are good
that the reply will be “no, thanks.” Or perhaps
it will be “mind your own business,” which
will then harm our feelings. Worst of all
may be an acknowledgement of concern…
creating a concrete bond and therefore obligation
to become involved on some level: a pat on
the hand, or shoulder…a hug.
When it comes down to it, a truly kind person
will know what to do instinctively…and won’t
have to worry about being saved by the bell
or the arrival of your appointment.
© Sometimes, 2016