Fred Sits Down

Fred feels thoughtful – says to the waiter,
“I’m but a short while here.

Your warmth and sun against
my precious wind and bitter
do battle,
deconstructing as they’re able,
the space I live within,
where I clutch at old things,

familiar and dear.

You offer me slowed moments,
an island vacation,
a time to set aside the immediate
of past and future busyness,
a chance for
relaxing blindered obedience.

I am doing nothing,

knowing nothing’s to be done
more than savour this night of sea breezes,
squawking radios,
languages other than my own.
I see dark humps in the distance
which sparkle,
perhaps lit by candles, laughter and
the tinkling wind-chime cocktail glasses
of someplace else.”

“As well,”

Fred notices and to himself muses,
“above, shines the quartered moon
as if it were a fault in the dome of sky
where light effuses, betrays another world,
maybe one from which we came
or another which we go toward,
if we ever die.”

Turning his head
enough to view the enclosing cap of
star-chipped black,
with its obvious crack,
Fred thinks,
“I didn’t end yesterday,
or today.
Though I have witnessed loss and sorrow,
the hour I finally disappear,
is distant, uncertain as tomorrow,
a bright light that is outside, teasing,
not truth yet,
nor proven yet a lie.”

He leans forward, says,
“Hell with it! Make mine a Mai-tai.”