Spectator Sport

Been watching from a distance

For a while now. Life does that

To us, makes us spectators

Assigns us back-row seats and

Just leaves us there. There I go

Again restating the obvious, just

Holding it up to look at again, as

If I hadn’t been paying attention.

I like to say “us.” I like to say “we.”

But I don’t really know if I’m here

Alone or with others, the us and we.

The show has been going on for

Quite some time. The players all

Know their parts. The curtains open

And close. The theme music for all

This keeps playing. The audience

If there is one beyond me is getting

Restless. How many more times?

How long does this go on? When

Will the house lights come on, and

I get to finally walk away?

                   Stopping

A stop sign, another piece of our day

A pause on our way getting there or

Getting back from wherever we were.

I like to stop as if I am on a timer, just

A second or two when I’m the only one

In line. I like to come to a complete stop

Like someone fresh from drivers’ ed, stop

Then go, a prescribed measure. I stop to

See if someone is crossing in the cross

Walk just then or a car’s going through or

Turning. If they are I feel that the purpose

For the sign has been served. There are

Reasons for things. Things are put in our

Way because sometimes we need to be

Reminded that other folks are coming or

Going too. We need to be reminded to stop

And admit to our place in things. We are

Just another car filling space, rolling or

Racing on, turning, timing getting where

We are going in a group of others doing

Exactly the same damn thing.

                Of Course

The inevitable is sitting mid-desk

Lined up properly, as you would

Expect. An envelope with a letter

To the effect that the inevitable has

Come this way. At least it’s not

An email or one of those meetings

That was obviously put together at

The last minute, with all your co-

Workers elbow to elbow knowing

That the Inevitable has finally come

To you/to them. You wonder at this

Difference, a letter left conspicuously

Mid-desk top, waiting to tell you what

You know it will. They even spelled

Your name wrong, the way they do so

Often. The misspelling was a joke for

So long, but now it just adds insult to

Injury. You think about waiting to open

The inevitable later, after you’re home

Or sitting in Patty’s, three sheets to

The wind. But no, you’ll open it now.

This is private and immediate. You’ll have

To face alone like this, alone like this.