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Let Me Explain
Here I stand on the soapbox of myself,
my whole future before me waiting
to be convinced. I straighten my tie
one day at a time and clear my throat.
I know tomorrow always listens
by its wits and makes its move accordingly, but
I'm not worried. I can see a little of myself
in each face-to-be in the crowd.
It must be potential that quivers
near the surface of the expressions, strains
against the barricaded physiognomies, trying to
get to me. I feel more than persuasive--
as if an ineffable syndicated light burned
from my life, as if my last commercial
were just ending and my regularly scheduled
existence were about to find itself.
It promises to be my finest moment.
I open my mouth and suddenly
I'm alone on a subway platform, staring
at the beer cans on the tracks. My eloquence
must have gotten off at the wrong idea.
This isn't what I'd meant at all. Why
does reality, that spiteful egomaniac,
go out of its way to misrepresent me like this? Why
does it refuse to understand that my part
in the drama is more than just
the sum of the holes in my plot?
Somewhere in the shadowy sunlight
a great shout goes up like a flag emblazoned
with my true colors and they throw
hats and music into the air.
I'm missing it all down here, Goddammit,
where I'm late again for the here and now
with no train in sight.
Copyright (c) 1992 by Robert Kendall
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