TWENTY-NINE

He weeps, he snarls, then he returns to bed.
"My love, come walk under the waterfall with me."
This one's different, it's unpredictable,
and it's For Rent, as all things yet to be,
either fantasy or speculation,
hover in contested luminescence.
All my life is but a porch swing, packed up
in a crate and sent to a storage unit
out of state. What happens to the dancers
when their joints begin to ache? Most of us
don't ever make mistakes we can recover from.
So I start to unpack, to backpedal,
to reflect and snap back, crowbar in hand,
the wood and nails that sealed the story shut
long before it ever got told. To what
do I owe this unexpected visit?
Simply to an evening of daydreaming.
I stole into the future, walked around
like a ghost, and picked up lines of speech
and states of mind that I just found, lying
there, on the bare floorboards of an unfamiliar house,
eleven months and twenty-one days from now.