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Hitting the Target Inside these walls, all things are made possible,
desire, hope, fulfillment, despair.
The bland stone uniformity of the exterior
belies the infinitude of choice within.
It is nearly axiomatic
that you end up finding something
other than you were looking for,
or you find them both, and more.
You have forgotten the difference
between need and want, if you ever thought
there was one in the first place.
All of creation exists in here,
birth and childhood, raiment and sustenance,
work and leisure and well-being,
and then, when it is time to go,
a final reckoning, and the bill must be paid
before heading outside where the light is real,
back into a world where there are no limits
to the choices of the things we do not want.
Luca
Whenever I step out of my shower,
Luca, with a hard C, is waiting,
first stretching through threshold
and onto the tiles, then to me to
rub his back fur against my wet calves.
It’s a strange feeling, but I’m used to it,
and have learned to delight
in its sheer weirdness.
Three passes, and then it’s over to the shower,
which is what he’s really after,
where he crouches like a stalker,
watching, with ears pricked,
at the remaining rivulets
making their way to the grate.
Then gravity continues its work,
and the remaining water coalesces
into something like tiny pools, big drops
making their imperceptible
yet inexorable journey to the drain.
The progress is by millimeters,
but he can see it with his superpowers.
Now and then he reaches out tentatively
to test one with a paw,
but when he catches one, it disappears.
Later, I see tiny black paw prints
on the shower sill, but I forgive him,
Luca, with the hard C,
and the easy life.
Michael Albright is retired and has returned to his abandoned youthful avocation of writing poetry and other wordsmithery. He resides in Greensburg, PA, with his wife, Lori, and an ever-changing array of children and other animals.
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