Folks like us live
in the past,
or in the future,
but rarely in
the present.
“What good is now?,”
whispers the devil
on my shoulder,
as he stirs the dark mess
that life left moldering.
Somehow, it’s still warm,
though that fire burned
out when all the air
was sucked out through
a metal door.
I’m dimly aware
of life’s passage…
the masthead lights flicker
through a train’s
foggy window,
as it barrels
alongside the Rhine.
In the turns,
we are tilting,
yet, never crashing,
as the old conductor earns
his keep –
up the hill,
we forever climb.
Go ahead and pull
on the sashes
to draw the curtain,
I have, after all,
seen all of these
mountain passes
before.
But, all I can do
is foresee and remember
the cresting waves
and the gentle sounds
of the river lapping.
©️ Obol, 2020.
