from behind your catalogue
of farm furniture and evening nightstands,
it would be easier.
Sure, had you found
those epilogues you nurtured
through your youth, and tabled
to eat your vegetables, this would be
the moment to peruse.
Gladly, I will step in and speak
of strength and resiliency
but this is another matter.
Are we close? Is it time?
The days are weary and full
of spite; only known to us.
Everyone else cast shallow hands
into the murks of pleasure.
We pull our back
into the deep of it.
I and you, seemingly blind, purposefully
trudge our oars firmly into the swells
where absolution is said to be.
I can say, this may be a mistake. Yes.
... this is not the time.
Yesterday I watched you be kind,
not for the sake of kindness, but for what
they gave you, like sandwiches in summer.
I see us as merchants of those
intrepid of you, mostly because
they know little of us and their
disadvantages; smile for what we
make up for them.
I see. I do. I see how. I see why.
...but, today is not the day.
Sit back and listen to the dialogue
that eternally keeps us; keeps us here.
Intimate, until it is isn’t.