‘Sometimes, there’s God so quickly. ‘
A Streetcar Named Desire

Harsh reality steps in just as the dance
of life seems so pretty and sweetly aromatic.
Reminds us that we are only imperfections,
transient beings, mired in complex
relation, long since once imagined.

We’re in an unsound constant
of a version of Windows 2,
struggling through
feverish, fervent attempts
to keep up with our compiling lives
which will be sent back to Her/Him.

We’re in a crystal second that is fragile,
a moment, then we are gone.
An old, discarded version
that wheeled and dealed
most everything,
but now a memory of a long, lost fling.

In black, jacquard dresses and dark, felt suits,
remembering our loves so plainly dead.
We’re ragged souls that have been used,
maligned, lined by time, then discarded.

God lifts us from ourselves,
sees past the selvages of our souls, and
makes us greater than any one of us.

Sometimes, we mistake misfortune for God,
say all this Terrible cannot be He/She.
God’s quite gone mad and dead,
lost in a cast of a casket of lead.

Suddenly, He/She appears
behind the curtain, in fading light,
takes care of our withering,
outstetched hands,
lifts us from this common dread.

Urging us to stay awhile,
enjoy the symphony of the spheres,
they’re just being revealed from concealed,
wondrous worlds of cosmic beauty
swirling through infinity.

When clouds gray this imperfect day,
when night swarms in,
when death seems the only thing
that’s left despite best intentions,
He/She is there.

Within this silence, within this lack of color
of a dot matrix’s portrait
of the letter he wrote so long ago.

Candles flicker at our tables, exposing
our emotions, ragged, haggard, wispy,
beaten to the ground figures, long forgotten.

Then there’s God so quickly,
and we rise, to stand again.