Poem: Don’t Go

Days not precisely endless — nor even long — trudge past, like defeated soldiers

Returning home

To pots of consolatory stew and the reassuring embraces of those who know them

In victory and failure.

The march is like a metronome,

And no amount of pleading can make it stop

Or falter, even when time ought to pose for a snapshot,

A portrait of when

All was good.

Now

In the midst of all that’s good

And fun

And beautiful

You tell me you must go.

You make me understand that you’re not coming back.

You will disappear.

Don’t go.

Please don’t go.

My words build and fade, like a flock of finches

In search of the next banquet.