In this room I live in,

the fires are forever furious,

criss crossing in continuous cascades

of lightning speed image

that can be stopped,

and turned for contemplation.

His pale face emerges,

twisted with rage,

the pale, blue eyes pushed wide

with his fury,

as he shouts,

“I would do anything

 to care for your boy!

But you, you, for you

 I would do nothing.

You could die!”                               

My old friend,

I look him in his eyes,

and twist him around

to savor him,

forgive me, forgive me, forgive me,

the shame is still real,

but not as powerful

as the love.

And then there it is,

the whole beautiful landscape

of where we once walked

through the thousands of acres

of grass—

your beautiful half-curved smile

that begs to be kissed,

it bastes the eyes

even now

in wonderful liquid joy—

But where did you come from,

little blonde wiggler,

my son—yes I remember

when you giggled in my lap

as we read your book,

“Carlson On The Roof,”

I believe—

The report, the report,

I have it all outlined,

down to structure and words--

what a disciplined place

this can be—

decades of experience

focused on this moment--

wonder how many megabytes

it is here,

must get it done,

must get it done,

the order given,

pull up to the machine,

close all other drawers,

even the facetious drum roll

and playing of the “Washington Post March”

that I called up.

Every curtain opened

another memory,

every scene observed,

more the choices made,

complexity upon complexity

were the hours

of thorough training.

All so curious,

and I’ve learned

to call it me.

Yes, there are many folds

in the four corners

of the mind. 

copyright 2010, Jerry W. Engler