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.
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