In a Confined Space (for Eric)
Midnight thunder roars,
rain rattles hard, sleepers
squeeze deeper in their beds,
even the trembling dog is welcome,
as if clumped together we are
safer than one by one. Wedged
between wife and dog, I think how I
would not like to ride on a holocaust
train, all crushed together in such
terrible disrespect. But I am one
of the fortunate ones. My ride is
relatively spacious, the view often
inspiring. The guards hand out tickets for
minor infractions but I am free
to complain. My awareness of where we
are going is usually out of focus, yet
here, with creatures pressed around me,
with lightening on the shade, I know
our destination and marvel at the way
I manage not to know it nearly all
the time. Is that bad? Is our ferocious
focus on life the way we must live
against the blank wall of our ending? I
don’t want to ride to the end in a boxcar
of dread. I want to ride with eyes wide
open on the upper deck, the 360 degree
view, in the company of wife and dog, a
choir of singing friends. I want some
glimpse of hoped for glory, some incense
of holy beginnings. Or just a great and
special silence. To drop the misleading
strategies of self protection. To step into
the Hamlet place, taking the glass when
it is offered, draining it to the final drop.
Our destination is known and absolutely
unknown. The willingness is all, to nestle
in the feathers of the owl, and fly.
Tomas deMers
