poems as hand- and foot-holds on a glass mountain

The Unchosen

 

not mine exactly, those unchosen

remaining in the odd half-life of possibles

careers considered and abandoned

their corridors un-walked

my tread a ghostly absence

among the actual pacing of others

my voice not raised in their debates

their jargon unlearned, their books unread

further and further from those turnings

fading toward the utter silence of spaces

between galaxies without reaching it

 

apartments and houses walked through

not chosen in actual or online house-hunting

women I rejected or who rejected me

our never-children hovering around each new choosing

seen, half-seen, unseen

the last the largest group

the never-consequences of every choice

a mob at a political rally or a hanging

a movie premier, a ball game

crowds of strangers jostling, shuffling, muttering or yelling

all of them younger some much younger

our notice slides over them, lingering

when the chosen disappoint us

 

they are the still children of every choice

we are the loud children

 

 

 

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