what we all want, my love,
the madness that makes the madness of human being possible to tolerate,
palatable the bitter fruit of good and evil—
to believe the distant hanging grapes are almost certainly not sour,
and better yet, are real—
to be so certain there shall be some catbird seat plushly upholstered,
one such for each deserving one of us,
our names embossed in gold on the upright backs,
from which comfy perches we can watch what follows our passing,
smiling with confidence yet with appropriate humility,
nudging one another to point out
there
and there
see? and see? happy endings everywhere,
our names remembered, our works cherished and enduring
(not forgotten, crumbling into indistinguished dust).
but, my love, we shall sleep in dust unknowing, pulverized by time,
not find ourselves watching the show from the bleachers
to the right or left of god.
so kiss me now, my love,
and kiss me again.
am i to stop you, when a million of your kisses are too few?
kiss me again before it’s time we go.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)