Tuesday Poem: "Calling in the Markers"

Afterwards,

like the aftermath of a motor accident,

I replay my actions.

“If I hadn’t...”

“Perhaps I should have...”

“Why did I do...”

“What could I have...”

Trying to heal,

the child inside, fumbling the emotional Lego,

acting in haste?

The lessons are salutary

when conducting open-heart surgery.

Do you value what and who you are so little

that you suspect my powers of discernment?

I promised no harvest

but was hopeful of the seed.

You reclaim the farm

now that my intuition is drought-broken,

foreclose on my feelings

so fast

it steals my breath away.

Not so stupid I can’t feel the Judas kiss

at the foot of my stairs.

Red wine served on Death Row,

the condemned allowed one last breathtaking vista

before you throw that switch.

Flick.

I don’t feel “awesome” when the flick comes.

Perhaps you are right about the spark.

Perhaps it springs fully-formed into life

and cannot grow like fire

coaxed and blown by a caring tender.

Instant gratification

not patient application

more becomes the 90s.

Logic is on your side

when you call in your markers

so I try to leave with dignity intact,

adopting an aloof masque

to hide the shabby, threadbare heart

of a gambler

bankrupt of hope.

Haven't we all had one of these? If you haven't consider yourself lucky. Enough said.