David Dumouriez

Enough remain who’ll lucidly recall
a time before the time I witness now
when members of their species sat
and spoke, and listened, and engaged.
As I navigate the floor, unmazing
left and right, my sole intent’s
to reach those grooved metallic stairs
that loop and loop until they don’t.
A passage you’d complete ten thousand
times, at least, in different permutations.
But still you see. See first. Grin perhaps,
then maybe count. They’re sat. You’re up.
You see the scene they don’t. Tables
sometimes full, sometimes threes or pairs,
all holding versions of a basic type.
Together, but alone. Addressing,
sliding, pressing, peering or enlarging,
in desperate need to validate themselves.
Survivors of the days of empty hands
will tell us that they had no cause for that.

We name it life, unknown of what it is.
Within it, we exert some thousand wills
responsible for dullness, ecstasy, and craft.
Random ends in ignorance produced
by those whose only mission is decay.
We’re not, and then we are, and then we’re not.
Brief wearers of this chain of straw,
we owe no one. There’s nobody to owe.
When faced with choices, we can do or not;
for ultimately nothing parts the two.
We can manufacture ties of loyalty,
but these exist alone to test or break.
Unpalatable it is, perhaps,
but no opinion counts that’s worth the name.
This is the blood and bone of us.
Some it scares; others liberates.

Came in, with unusual
quietness (apparently);
played with cats on
the floor; wrote stories,
drew pictures; became a
small authority on that
game where you kick
that ball and the other
where you use that bat.
Read and wrote, and
read some more. Joined
the world. Tried people –
mixed results – went back
to cats. Wrote again.
Most likely will exit
quietly too, remembrance
to unlast past one generation.