A Moment I Felt Would Never Come
It’s like once having known a
chronic alcoholic, which I never had,
at close quarters, which I also
never had. No more calculating
minutes, soft-boiled to hard.
Waiting till he finds the butter knife
is not with its dish, oh my God.
A ceramic coffee mug stained
with its last watermark, good Lord.
Like mix-match napkins set carefully there,
I stood in place on each black and white square
on the stage of our chess board
to which I’d record
all of the years I thought I could fix,
and spent waiting for our Apocalypse.
An echo resounding, taken aback,
off a rook and a knight carved and shellac’d.
It was then at the time, matter and mind.
both plotting revenge, if only for some,
for a moment I felt would never come.