The Game

(a poem from my collection, Akashic)

I was late to the game of despair,
So all the close seats were taken.
I had to sit up high in the hopeful section,
Where limiting sight lines
Kept blocking the inflamed play-by-play.

Those around me lacked hypertension,
Though it lingered ever so slightly
In the feeble echo
Of arguable chanting from the field,
Where “I’m right” was still sparring against “I’m right.”

But in this peculiar section, the left hand did not keep score
With what the right hand was doing.
There was a purposeful muting -
No one choosing to waste the Word
On reckless transaction.

Next to me, thoughtful eyes beneath a crocheted beanie
smiled effortlessly
While offering me peppermint puffs
with the same fingers that once had fashioned her well worn hat.
I thought of time travelers, angels
and celestial interventions.

And then, without the slightest fanfare,
My heart broke and out bled a wholly rhythm
That breathed and revived an unknown paralysis,
Like a venerable iron lung with sweet candescence,
Regenerating all my generations with fresh life.

How impaired and asleep I was from a weighting
Caused by hoarding the snarls of stats
And trophied conjecture.
But now, in this new inning, old grief just kept purging out,
Mopped by maintenance with hands like angels unawares.

Somewhere, somehow,
I had forgotten
That the game was only a game
And not a test for endurance.

Perhaps this was due to where I was sitting.