when i speak, words come out an
incoherent mess; adjectives pile
up while nouns, verbs, and everything
else lay like the remnants of
a rollover car crash, strewn
in a mud-soaked ditch waiting
for an ambulance to come collect
the scattered bits of a eulogy
that fell in tragic irony just
short of it's destination;

this pen is my safetybelt;
strapping me in to this
moving vehicle so that after
the glass has been cleared from
the roadway and the safety barriers
have been repaired,
i can reassemble the pieces;
meticulously reconstructing each element
until i've walked the rest of the way
to point B to deliver my grand statement;

but the thought still plagues me;
what if i arrive to an empty room,
precious moments past the point where
anyone had lingered;
i will have come too far to
simply accept and move on;
i'll speak to the walls and
folding chairs, half-deflated balloons
and wastebaskets full of paper plates
with frosting still clinging to them
in hopes that someone will yet come
find them; in hopes that they were
not overlooked;

well, i am here;
and this has been worthwhile anyway.

02/12/2008

Posted on 02/12/2008
Copyright © 2024 Andrew S Adams