Poem 17

Strangers are seated on one another's laps
quietly pacing in dream and thoughts
under the brooding twilight.

As the tremble of thunder warms the air,
an upswelling blooms—gently and lithely—

a melodic breath punctuated by a shrill lapse
breaks the terse, billowed ether—
a cooling, cooing, cocooning exaltation
stirring thick, cream-coloured clouds.

And from the swells of this tempest's heir
springs rousing verve and trepidation,
and the strangers from their chairs.

With shaken glances, their eyes dot
across the dense, tenebrous room, searching
for faces familiar, and ageless,
of those latent in memory's womb.

Here and there, a mouth, a nose,
an eager ear, a friendly shoulder,
and at last, among the faces, their own.

Hardly a feature appears set in stone—
like the prose of pageless novels—
yet there it is, absent of dubiety and touch and feel,
and with nascent eyes that reflect the room.

With every passing look, the room grows smaller,
and the eyes behind surrounding darting glimpses
grow less pensive, more familiar—
Until lights return.

Though the room remains crowded and beaming,
and its denizens piled lap on lap,
the clouds have retreated and features have returned
to the countenances of those time forgot,

Now,
hardly a dream or thought stands stoically idled or pacing—
instead: coalesced, interwoven, flirting, pleated—
sharply and still-seated.

And as the seated find in each other's glances, their own,
an apron'd muse walks leisurely by from behind, bringing
at last plates to accompany their coffee.