Prolepsis

Within one 24-hour stretch

last week, I sat in the dark

with a young man

who thought death looked pretty good,

and stood in the lights

of an Emergency Room

with a middle-aged one

who desperately wanted to live.

The day after, I had arrived

late into a large, carpeted church-room

stuffed with well-tucked presentation

and half-embraced deep thought.

Then yesterday, walking

with the big hand of my young son

happily inside mine,

I stepped past a polite homeless man.

At that moment driving by

another stranger,

Plain for those with eyes to see

that his metallic-beige SUV

was not financed

but paid in full,

It was perfectly temperate

yesterday, but his gold-tinted

windows tightly sealed,

And his clean, buttoned collar

reaching up his neck to match

the empty grip

on his face.

That moment passed,

But it has also not passed.

Nor have the others,

The dark, the lights, the room,

the hand and the strangers,

All of them linger heavy

and wait for reconciliation.

So am I, Waiting,

Expectant and leaning

forward with these

and other such thoughts

for longer than I care to recall.

Usually, I don’t

Care or recall

Usually I forget to anticipate,

stranded on the moment

beneath my feet.

Maybe forgetfulness is a mercy?

Otherwise life gets too full,

The bulk tumbles out into the darkness

or bleeds-out under the lights,

When the cup runneth over

it stains the carpet

and slips through the fingers.

Or maybe it should pile up

The cumbersome abundance

from time to time,

Lest all of life’s moments succumb

to the unconstrained present

without a stop

for the remembering that becomes anticipation.

Then, deadpan,

we glide right past it.