Coloring the Edges, poetry by SR Inciardi at Spillwords.com
Marta Wave

Coloring the Edges

Coloring the Edges

written by: SR Inciardi

 

I. Getting Older

Now in the early light,
I see the morning arrive.

I’ve been waiting.

Soon, I will hear its footsteps
come up the hall, as so many
mornings before,

carrying yet another new day
in a filled wicker basket
with both hands – the bounty full,
but with lesser choices –

part of the fabric
of long being here.

From the window,
I see the traffic awaken.
Its random swirl along paths
I need no longer discern:
some coming up the avenue,
others moving out across the bridge,

a swirl of motion
awakening in the early light,

moving softly in silence
along paths that guide them
silently in the sun,

where now it lifts its head
from darkness’ pillow and lights
each of their many paths I need not discern,

believing that when each traveler arrives—
as I have come to learn—
only they will know.

Now in the early light, more or less
a new morning arrives
as expected,

I hear it knock softly
at the door, here again
to feel it slip

its hand in mine –
but just a bit more
loosely than before.

 

II. Manhattan Special

The maple’s creaking branches
sway in the wind created by Mercury
sprinting past: all this beneath
a starred-magician’s black cape of sky.

If only time went to rest.
If only time went to rest,
took a vacation and left every moment
without a fate, I would not be
wearing my soles thin
rushing along the pavement
of Manhattan
to get there and have a final tea with Joan
before the 8:15 left for Danbury.

If only time went to rest.
If only time went to rest
and left the echoes standing in mid-air
like a snapshot of a baby
tossed above her father’s head:
from this moment
to the next,
not one sealed covenant
can anyone possibly make
or break.

Unlike the options a dog has
just after waking: to drink
or play; to run
chasing a lint-filled tail; to step
onto the carpeted landing
at the front door and fall
into sleep again.
No, not one sealed promise
can anyone possibly make
or break!

Our voices, thrown into canyons,
drown quick and painful deaths.

If only time went to rest.
If only the sun got stuck
in the 3 o’clock position of the sky
and couldn’t wriggle free,
then I wouldn’t be rushing,
pushing and shoving, to get to see Joan
before the 8:15 left for Danbury.

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