Anonymity Reflecting


To toss or turn?

Ah, that is the question.

Without a coat and hat,
his reverie went out early,
visiting once again
the dark marquee,
the anticipation of identity
without light.

Somewhere along the vacuous streets,
his familiar acquaintances,
the gray days of so many weeks,
the ghostly army of lock-step time
remained oblivious to his weighty diet of observation,
noticing little his incessant chewing,
the lengthy gestation and absorption
desperate to manage the weight
of tenacity’s endless march.

Tossing and turning…

In this home of barrenness,
his stage of each day’s beginning,
he found it snowing again,
another nocturnal storm,
acts of the past blowing in
from stage right, stage left,
coating the floors, the walls,
his anxious shoes
vying to find purchase
in this fleeting world of illusion.

His feet became ice,
but his heartbeat
begged attention,
knowing his only solace,
was his reflective-companion,
Anonymous.

He was resigned to his mind’s inclement weather,
knowing it could be months
before the lights might illuminate the stage,
bring the warmth of an audience
to abate the cold,
yet, something was different.

He began to miss…
himself.

His heart’s mirror knew only honesty,
forever urging he be the person he was,
not the delusion he was urged to become.

Tossing and turning…

He remembered the spring of his youth,
when he believed footprints in the snow would melt,
and his “no job-no money” moment to moment
would disappear as just part of the journey.

But now…

He tosses one last time,
turns to the wall,
opens his eyes,
stares at the cracked paint,
the world map of his water stained ceiling,
smiles at all the remembered cities and park benches
still looking down at him,
still willing to remain his friends,
even as the front door remains closed.

As infinity’s sunrise peeks through the keyhole...
he accepts his remaining anonymous time has arrived.

Such happiness,
at last.