Thoughts
written by: SR Inciardi
I come back to the ones that have proven
inaccurate, those circling in my head like maddening melodies
spewing from a stuck phonograph needle,
those whose echoed words reverberate from another time
floating on shallow waters in recurring light
where each run alongside the others circling
with their imprecision still in place
to then disappear once again for years at a time
leaving on a silent journey in different directions.
But the roadway I travel keeps moving,
oftentimes to dead ends where the pavement
suddenly runs out and where thoughts resurface
from beyond the bend or below the top of the hill
to fill the void of questions held in my empty hands.
I wish I were a psychic who could read tealeaves
or know what the creases in a palm would come to,
the thought of being ahead of what could befall another
and know thoughts before any ominous music was played.
The thoughts and the music never said anything
before I knew fortunes, and they still don’t
explain themselves. But suddenly the day is over, and I look
to find thoughts of insightfulness as though they could
reassure and soothe, as though they could say what I thought
and should have known.
- Thoughts - August 22, 2024
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