maybe i am little sad sometimes and
maybe you are a little sad sometimes
because we drift away from reality hard
facts into a realms of speculation and
who doesn't an analogy might be a
blue sky sunny day becomes an over
cast cloudy day there are reasons as
to why but the reasons don't necessarily
matter they are they exist and so do
we so we leave our sunny sky for a gray
sky and it makes us a little sad or
very sad knowing that we are some of
each and others are some of each that
nothing is perfect that existence is grayish
but we often leave reality willingly it
isn't necessarily a drifting-away process
it may be deliberate reality being what
it is an imperfect construct and maybe
the analogy is backward that we live
in a grayscale existence and speculate a
blue sky existence for any number of
reasons for the pleasure of it for the
escape it affords for sanity's sake for
the impossibility of not drifting into
speculation for no better reason than
blue sky is lovely to behold that it makes
us happy or less sad to behold rather
than dwell that blue is proof of perfection
We find others milling about the door, there seems to be a problem. The word is
the club was shut down for a code violation. We and the others are pondering alternatives. My inclination is take it as a sign to go home, make cups of tea and listen to Philip Glass, or watch MST3K and drink wine. Marketa, not surprisingly, would rather find another club, which we do, and dance. And drink.
I'm in the moment, into the rhythm and movement, but not entirely in the moment. I kind of wish we were home. But we will be home soon, I think. True, I think, but that is then and this is now. What's wrong with now? I think.
It isn't a great cosmological mystery. It's because there are an infinite number of things we could be doing, and we're doing what we usually do, and it may be that if I see one more woman waving her arms above her head, swaying to the music, I will implode. Unlikely as that may be. Time is passing, I said so yesterday, and here we are. Routine is well and good up to a point. I think I reached the point.
Marketa reads my mind and says, let's go. We go. What do you want to do? she says.
We drive to Pacifica on the west side of S.F., a part of the city that overlooks (wait for it!) the Pacific. There is nothing fundamentally different about this. We like the ocean, the ocean view, but here we are on a Friday night, not dancing, not at home, not at the vineyard, not having dinner with Marcy, not being entirely, one-hundred percent, predictable. And it is so nice being with Marketa, arm in arm, snuggling into each other, as we walk along the path in the park that overlooks the ocean, her warmth and mine melding into one big, syrupy, pool of happiness.
I am in the moment. I say that without qualification.
(Wait for it!) after Elizabeth Bishop's, (Write it!)
in One Art
Poetry by one trick pony
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Written on 2018-12-08 at 17:30
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