Poet at the edge

I did not venture a word, there are no phrase hooks,

no pithy comments or cogent suggestions to some things.

Some things are left alone even when they seem most needy.

The damage may not be done with a thought but it is

begun with it and it is there even if it’s not apparent,

even if it doesn’t scream for attention, even if it is held

hostage with muffled voice whimpering.

And the more opaque it is, the more it reveals itself

and you and I can talk about it, rearrange the intellectual furniture,

play William Buckley and Leonard Cohen since we know

all intellect is of New York and the rest is, well, pseudo-intellect.

I can’t swear there is a difference from one political season to another

but the names of the characters do change even if the situations seem

oddly familiar, like those family reunions we all try to avoid but the

gravity just pulls us in, probably from morbid curiosity, that’s all.

Holding your breath to the count of ten and circling so hard you get dizzy,

it’s all in great fun until you realize, sipping your latte at Starbucks blankly

one summer afternoon, that it is your career sucking oxygen out of you,

it is your choices that have made you lame, or worse, caused atrophy.

I will stand alone with you, looking over your shoulder for protection

and I will wait for you when others have abandoned you, when others

believe they can no longer stand with you.