I was thinking–might’ve died clutching
my chest–how little it mattered what
I did, how I did, and would it truly
have mattered to anyone? And then what’s
there left to do? Loud-mouthed fate,
whisper to my ears what would be a
kind of non-existence.
I watched over a large-boned boy who sleeps.
It’s almost midnight. There’s not much I would
go on a rampage for–just him and the older one
but they’re old enough. They grew older and
we grew older and then old. I am adrift writing
this as if waiting upon a new destiny.
So, nothing now.
Prompt: I was reading a short story that had this line: “Days and years and feelings much the same, except that the children would grow up, and there might be one or two more of them and they too would grow up, and she and Brendan would grow older and then old” (Alice Munro, “Post and Beam”). Isn’t it weird when one goes into summary mode? So much ellipted. How does that line (or some abbreviated form of it) work in a poem? I tried it on for size and you are to do the same. You know, just to see what kind of taste it leaves in your mouth (or poem).