By the window,
in the greying hours I wait.
Roundabout the house,
riding the prying wind,
laughter’s rowdy ghosts
sorrow’s despairing phantoms
and the imps of might have been,
all press and jostle close.
eyes caressing the velvet rope,
desperate to leave the shadow lands
hands outstretched beseeching,
seeking attention, anything that
they might take hold and grow
to be righteous, matters of substance,
not tattered and cast off,
useless as windblown umbrellas.
I pull back memory’s cloak, whisper ,
but the only incantations I know,
against the dark and nightmare creatures,
are contradictory childhood fragments;
“Don’t look back.”
“Turn and face them.”
In ancient times,
with their questions and offerings
They heard the oracles
but left wondering.
So we hear now,
but stubborn pride cloaks meaning
are usually heavily discounted,
we so want gods to agree with us.
Answers are paid for with another currency.
Only time will tell.
benjamin weinberg 2019