Who are you, at this table? I protect you
with forgiving words, forgiving thoughts. As
you speak I listen with an ear which has
been ancient all of the years of my life.
Who are you? Age spots mingle with the
freckles, frowns are deeper furrows outlining
your green eyes. Like mimes, mirror images
you smile-I smile, the corners of my mouth
flopping up like an over-ripe slice of
cantaloupe. Your laughter cascades in a
familiar self-conscious refrain. Outside a turn
of doves wings in unison, a spiraling corkscrew
wheeling back into themselves again and
again in the continuous drizzle of rain.
Why am I the way I am, you ask. I blink
and the ancient ear closes. I glance back,
and my feet are in the blocks. The gun sounds,
and I lunge forward, willing myself across
the finish line.