I pull back the curtain to let in a little light

noticing that here, now, there is no longer

a table to be turned.

There is no longer a reason to be angry,

or moral, or burnt out by the frailty

of others actions or in-action.

What’s worse is I no longer find it funny,

but just a little sad, that, all the while

I’d been searching for something,

something in everyone (something I’d lost?)

that could never be theirs to give.

It’s become almost impossible to ignore

this benign neutrality that begs the question,

for whose benefit has this effort, my effort,

really ever been for?

And it’s then I start to slip away

like specs of dust my memory’s carried

through light and sound and everything else

that no one but myself can reason.

So I open the curtain just half an inch more

to allow a little light in, where here, now

there is no more to explain—

no weight in which to carry.

When I shook the hands of fate, they offered me a parlay.

(I can’t ever get that back) But—

this much I can do.