Metanoia

Tea With J. Alfred

         Tea With J. Alfred

Shall I take tea with
J. Alfred and muse about
the mermaids in the midst
of us, as we tremble
by the sea
trading wistful fancies
of romantic temptresses

trailing long strands of
glittering sand-grit hair?

I too grow old.

Wandering melancholy woods
leaves trampled underfoot by
passing centuries
no path here left unspoken for.

I pick a speck of dust from
my sleeve, hold it to the light,
straining to hear
tiny shouting Who’s
that I might
rescue them.

“Too late”
gusts the wind.

I sigh, shuffling my feet past
the gate. It is much too late,
no more important dates.

Eyelids drift down,
face painted as a clown.
No matter.

I will fit in
with the children
brightly painted
glittering gold and
silver treasures
marking the flesh
of their nose
and brow.

And even now
I forget to remember

it is Autumn, not December.