Johnathan dreamt of writing a novel;
an intergalactic thriller,
as he picked the bones of his cup of coffee clean.

Angela, sitting a universe away across from him,
attempted the same of his mind … unsuccessfully,
then got up and danced to the beat of an all-night party,
excited at the prospect of the soon to be alliance
with her man, who sat comfortably numb
in the geometry of a nearby corner and conversation.

Still, she worried if it was the right choice,
puffing on a 3am cigarette.
What could she do to save the world,
let alone that which was hers?
“Little,” she concluded for the meantime,
but watch the non-existent lines on her face
grow deeper with her years.

Johnathan, well aware of Angela’s predicament,
observed but didn’t speak,
glancing over at some relic from the seventies,
rolling joints on a table,
that had seen one too many pizzas.

The family cat just sat quietly preening itself,
snickering into its whiskers ... “silly people;”
worried over things they could never control...
one, the follies of marriage and growing old,
another, rescuing the galaxy,
while slugging back the first of several beers.


© 1983
Revised © 2018

970 hits as of December 2024

05/08/2018

Posted on 05/08/2018
Copyright © 2024 Chris Sorrenti