Abel
We were seldom the ones to guffaw and
Punch knees, true. But we were in tune with our
Wry observations and familial sarcasm that
Left others – despite our good-nature – unsure
Of when to laugh or to feel slighted ’til
They made our acquaintance
Like sand
Piled high on sand,
Wet from waves retreating.
Those days were lost to Mammon or
More elaborately, the dangers of germ warfare,
How we learn that the beat goes on.
But aren’t those just feathery words?
Like doilies on a mussed fraternity couch
When I’m writing simply of what’s missed.
—–
—-
I’ve had one recurring dream for the past ten years, maybe longer. It’s one of those dreams where even in sleep, I’m thinking, oh, this again. I am running up a hill, sometimes chased and sometimes chasing; it’s in a casual laughing manner. Occasionally, it’s a serious pursuit. Usually, I’m on foot. On a few occasions, a car. Steadily the grade increases and it’s eventually so steep that I begin to slide. Then I wake up.
The past year brought a sleeping epiphany of sorts where I was blessed with traction and actually reached the top without slipping; I found that there was nothing there. Confused but not really sad, I headed back down and I woke up with it all floating in front of me.
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