If our worlds — personified in the
Literary critic’s eye — are to
Defy known laws of gravity, to collide,
What kind of impact would such a collision rake:
Would such a dent he-who-made-the-lambkin make?
A Hemingway omnibus stare back
At your fast moving eyes
And knowing long dead Ernest, I fear that he’ll dupe her,
As I watch from the other corner with a Sidney Sheldon,
And with a penny in my purse, in case I meet Sheldon Cooper.
You are the one one day
To wake up, walk out the door, to cross the stile,
Hit the highway and to a horizon-less entangle go.
To walk over the bodies of a thousand dead — or killed —
In stilettos churning the gorge to some ordinary dream you willed
And turn back — perhaps — with a degree they’d confer on you,
Look down and sigh — at the lives laid down –,
Walk back, hug friends, post on FB and cry
And from a stone balcony on a morning I peer as I watch
The slow carts, in the direction that you take, pass by.