I have visions as a 50 year old man
sitting at a small round table outside
of a cafe wathcing the breeze blow
and the leaves fly.
There is a seat next to me—
unoccupied, not because I’m lonely,
but because I have stepped
away for some alone time.
I wonder if this will be a common
occurrence: sitting alone at a coffee
table by myself or inhaling my
decisions with stuttering sighs
and exhaling the fear of not knowing
the rest of my life.
Not a book, a woman, nor a man should
be judged by its cover—
seeming—because a composed and
sound exterior can hide the shifting
landscape of the pages inside—
being.
I have read the book of every day
lately and look in the mirror to see Bill
Murray—running to the book of life to
find that it starts at chapter 26.
Yesterday’s last years gone with fresh
page rips, scarring the inseam.
The book doesn’t even have a back
flap, just “ the now” followed by by blank
pages followed by a literary cliff with
nowhere to fall.
Best not to read the words forming
every minute—ink dropping. Best not
to birds eye if my body keeps stalling—
body keeps stalling.
“Everything is gonna work out, don’t
worry about it, it’ll be fine” is the
mysterious elixir that flinched eyes,
tense hips, and clenched feet will drink.
Where as “Silence, action, laser focus
and tunnel vision” is the gallon of
water that’s fueled by our concrete
beliefs.
Visions confuse in that you can see
what you see. What’s there is what is
and what’s not is what isn’t.
The only thing I have to know, need
to know, is does he get up from the table.