We are riders
on the back of time, on a crowded bus, full of babies
bearing the faces of people
who we should have loved
and should have loved us in return.
Over years a nameless driver
pushed the brakes to discharge, to pour out
to unload until, like this morning
we find ourselves riding again, alone together
as once we did.
This time, we ride with memories bursting
with questions answered, with prophecies fulfilled.
Knowing leaves a journey simple
and makes the going difficult to bear.
For now we know what we never could have
but might have guessed at anyway.
That love alone renders our passage sufferable, in pain…
or light as heated air when there is joy;
silent and still as well, when the plains are flat, and dry, and long.
The refrigerator hums, we no longer hear it.
Like voices in our heads, droning.
Crowds of words, proffered in anger and in solace
play in our minds as music
while we yet ride.