I was the last pilgrimage
by train-
she settled, almost young,
opposite an ancient man,
an edge of us held in each,
the outside blurred in back.
We are carnival reflections here:
what is seen depends on observation
and how we find ourselves in angles
of belief
one across the aisle
another across my surface.
Both lost, discarded. Forgotten.
Gold becomes amber
with ambient need,
so neither should look too deep
onto the other face-
for fear of falling
endless into self, of loosening
the residues remains,
the trace of who we might have been,
the figment of what we are.
How the Elder, leather skin
worn like his brown-shoe bookends,
held a tome of forgetful,
a six-pack of beer
propped hard against the floor
beside his eyes.
[ mine also: as steady as he would be
later that day; as steady as I might someday become ]
And our tiny goldfish darted, saw everything
of was and is-
somehow we managed a smile
in between.
On the platform, leaving
was a tattered newspaper,
redundant-
the only news it held long past,
a reminder of him [ both versions ]
and how everything skips.
Back then it was the paper
and now, images of Autumn
in neglect.
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