Parking Pole



I saw the parking pole tipped over sideways
And a ripped up piece of vest, strewn on the ground
Maybe the rain had washed away the puddles
Maybe it was the men who put the caution tape around 
Who stood 
Where they had stood 
where they were then
I was reminded 
Of an oak - or maybe a maple - in the darkness
Whose dent, just like a scar, it fresh displayed
A little scrap the last of the red wrecked remnant
Smashed 
He picked it up from the ground where it had laid
Something, like a greyness, weaves it fingers
In between and hovers in the space
Where custom's smooth cool circuit was disrupted
Crunched like a can and thrown out of its place
Where the clear glass image of our living 
Was struck one sharp knife-blow, 
and shattered, 
without a trace
And the grey wisp whistles, swiftly, past us:... almost
How to call it? How to speak
When words are like the hasty, busied steps 
Of passers-by that will look and yet not see it:
This ghostly grave of safety's sweet illusion 
Which each is swift and skilled to build again
It silent calls to contemplate the scene
Where castles built on sand and made of smoke 
Dissolved for a brief instant, in their frailty 
Where visions of a life unending

Broke



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