Two Frigates Pass in the Night
One came from the north side
the other the south
sailing along the torpid seas of aisle 13
meeting somewhere in the middle by the baking goods.
For a fleeting moment their eyes entwine
in a micro-second of an embarrassed embrace
then a rapid unclutching,
an instance snatched by an eclipse of darkened spirits.
Their shadows fall ungracefully over the pancake mixes
shades of selves triggered by clocks
spelling their fleeing time in hands-full seconds sweeping across their faces.
Goose-bumped flesh, and Krakatoan explosions
spew ashes of reality in the dull afternoon.
Remembrances of things long passed
shoveled mounds of dust floating in flagons of frothy ale
stale bread used to sop up the foam and cushion their rotting teeth.
Escape the mirror images,
the torn pages of eras adrift in a maelstrom of broken dreams
swirling into a quickly draining sinkhole.
They pause by the Bisquick
and share a dream of frying pancakes,
sizzling bacon, and sweet butter syrup.
Dare each other to look at the other and smile.
As quickly, eyes like pairs of wrecking balls
move on to the pickles and the relish
or wherever their wives lead them.
Et tu, Brute, one's eyes scream.
Kimo sabe. Hi yo! Silver
the other howls at a dimming sun--
And away they drift to the other ends of the aisle.
Shoulders sag under the present,
no rapprochement in the aisles
only sadness of the woebegone.
The frigates pass.
Frig it, one screams from the south side!
Batters at the plate with no left-field homers to announce,
only leaky ships to carry them across the Lethe which both forget.