Pushed, Stamped, Debriefed

 

Pushed, Stamped, Debriefed

 

 

On route – the legs worked - the mind? Sharp.

Well, age makes some portions spongy-soft,

and sentiment can wrap its curds in cheese cloth,

expose to air what passes muster as heart.

The flight that took you above the clouds

still brought you down to earth somehow

until the mere act of brewing coffee is ground.

You’re resigned, feel you’ve left something behind,

but won’t be pushed, filed, stamped – it’s kind,

after all, but still glittering grey and who will pay?

You repeat yourself, unsure what lies behind –

were there spectacles? Ah, you cannot say,

cannot swear to it. There’s story here, fable,

but any allusions were but leavings on the table –

you read about that, how it descends from feast

to famine – a licking of bone, a handful of crumbs,

indexed, briefed, debriefed and numbered.

You confessed to nightmares that plague slumber,

shrugged them off – what is and ever was,

and during the unwinding of the river’s course

wondered how many million millions were lost –

you are not alone, your life is your own.

But somehow - and you know not how –

the mirror crack’d from side to side, the curse

is come upon you, the legs, once so true,

buckled beneath, failed, and found you impaled

on a clerk’s spike fashioned from Victorian nails.