History

History has many corridors, yes,

and floodlit stages where the folks

with greater parts than we have

romp, cavort, and trade bold gestures

that affect us all,

and sooty alleys where you’d only go

for love or money;

it’s a steeply winding stair,

a sliding board, a tunnel or a ramp,

depending on your gravity of mind

or point of view—but all

the same, the level years

like floors that tumble though a burning house

and come to rest, blue cinders,

on the ground where all things subject

to the laws of change must come to rest,

the shelf of now,

this moment over breakfast

as we touch warm fingers over

toast and jam

and say, okay, I’m glad you’re here,

no matter what we said or did before,

I’m glad you’re here.