The Meat of the Matter

Having a serious case of Blogger's Block, I am resorting to posting one of my old poems. Here you go ...

The Garden Party

He will be by your side, of course. You with your ivories, Him with his tree-jumping. And I, with my notebook, have caused my children To bring me here as well. To this yawning lawn, Where, should I choose to yell through bony teeth You would interrupt your teacup talk with those nearby, And from your plush confine, beneath that Box Elder, You would see me, Perhaps offer me a sip of whatever we will drink there, And remember that we once drank together, When we spoke that strange language. But he will hear your whispers And gently pluck the leaf from your hair, He will be lying close enough to see your eternal smile, Should your face be turned toward him. Still ... so long as there is choosing, I will chose this place -- a mere large stone's throw away. Since I am of no use to anyone but the stone carver And black-suited salesmen. For as you know I have my reasons why I've let this life build a mountain range between us. That crooked line that divides our heart from our duties holds an unflinching cruelty. But there are some choices whose sleeves the grubby hands of duty cannot tug. For if I can't be next to you, my love, In this yawning lawn, Then I would like to be nearby. This choice is mine. And I will wear my finest suit. And watch forever you, in your finest dress, In hopes that the pounding feet of millenia Might fold this earth And touch fingerbone to armbone. Ankle to knee.