The specials hang precariously
from the menu as we wait
for our drinks or some other memento
of the night. Somewhere a gambler’s
sullen request for a crown
of a different suit threatens to upset
the atmosphere before evaporating
like vapor, airily passing
our server on the way from the kitchen.
She says Issac Newton is floating
in her head & I crave an apple but
I’ll settle for a journey where the sun picks
a number & lets us settle
on a sliver of the wheel. The specials fall
from my menu but there’s no law
against that. The server takes
our orders & the night feels endless.
My murky memory extrapolates the smoke,
pixelated recollections somewhere in the cache
that clears itself (a grasp slackens)
as I hasten to replace lost echoes
with reminiscences to come,
not forgotten among the ash,
rising if we dare stretch hereafter.
The future — always fuzzy like sleep
that won’t rub out of our eyes — changes
every time we look at it, as we push forward
carrying the momentum of those better angels
urging us to grow our own wings
and launch ourselves to join those
refusing to leave progress to others.
Time will tell what tales we create,
Proceeding only where we dare.