And so the man, the voice, the entity sat,
Sipping a tumbler of brandy, turned inward,
Lost in thoughts his own, for lack of better conversation
elsewhere.
Around him the mild chaos of the lives of men tumbled and
purred
And frittered about.
So pathetically endearing, the little people, who ask so much
Who offer so little.
Who place their constrictions upon themselves and then,
When circulation begins to slow, fret and wallow in their
imaginary chains.
So mild, the little people.
Like carrots that are convinced they are really peppers.
They strut about, wearing their finery and being lousy in
salsa, though they dare not tell it….
They speak to the man as if they know him, as if they have a
box for him, as if he would fit.
But he does not fit.
But passing, now and again, he sees it true. There, crossing at the crosswalk.
She is no young one, nor is he. Together they walk. Knowing, familiar. That is it.
Just there it is, that lovely thing just touched a
stranger’s arm and he shook imperceptibly.
They will go back to their lives again but that was it as
well.
And those two, they are gazing, hungry but not for the
sandwiches of this café.
They came in together. They leave, hands clasped with
purpose and faster than they came in,
They will burn themselves down and move on in weeks but it
is real, just the same.
The man smiles into his glass and thinks.
Time does not constrain it.
Rules are sneered at by it.
It seeks the counsel of none.
When it is, it is right.
When it isn’t, sometimes it is still right.
It can be tempered strong as steel, fragile as a snowflake.
With a knowing glance at these, the little people, the man
finishes his drink,
Gathers his bow, his arrows and off he flies, smiling all
the while….
