11 Sep 2016

One Line and Two

Three minutes is all it takes, but the wait feels like thirty.
One line and the road ahead is as it was, potholed with unseen twists;
two lines: that route diverges right before us into a foreign forest.

One it is, one line, the one wanted, half expected.
We continue businesslike down that way.
What's a life here or there?

An Honest Attempt

I tried writing about the time I
watched from among a small crowd
a man die. The man died. We just looked on
as life crawled out of a body
that became no longer his,
turning to each other slowly, entranced
as we tried to understand
what happened—
but mostly,

I couldn't finish what I started, not
because it was too much
but because it wasn't true,
not remotely, not the slightest bit. How insincere
to write about what I hadn't known, had never felt,
untouched, an unscathed experience.

I should stick with what I
know—good advice—and write
about all I have:
dreams and rain,
composites of the two.

I've started to feel that this life is
a sum of intention, confession,
work in progress for an honest attempt.
Shame that honesty doesn't pay well.