Member-only story
Settling
a poem about settling
Sometimes it is as if you were never here. The traffic patterns still swirl the same, the people still move in and out of the buildings like crowd scenes in a television show, one of those adventurous detective shows on prime time where the hero follows the suspect past the street musicians, around the flower sellers and hot dog stands and nearly everyone is well dressed and no one has that lost look on their face as if they aren’t quite sure why they’re there or where it was they meant to go. The detective always wins, of course, that’s why it’s called prime time.
Sometimes I watch from my window as if any moment you’ll be turning the corner in that old car, late again.
No one ever explained to us that risk and loss are measured in tiny segments, one second at a time. The big risks are easy, it’s those tiny ones we could never seem to master.
Nothing much has changed. There still aren’t enough parking spaces, the weather is still unseasonable, the department budget is still too small for any major improvements in lifestyle. I’m still doing caffeine, and my hands are still dry from handling too much paper.
I wouldn’t want you to return, if the truth be known, for then we would have to face every tiny line of risk in one another’s face, measure out exactly where our hands have touched, go back to our grand pretenses. All these losses have marked my face, I know, just as they’ve marked yours.
Better for both us to settle for something comfortable and safe,
find a place where nothing changes.
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Copyright 2016 Marguerite Floyd all rights reserved
