palest moonlight throws its glow
on the earth piled high
'round the fresh pit dug today,
an open maw hungry to be filled.
not far away,
a solemn vigil is kept by the new widow,
tonight she mourns the loss of a lover,
a long-time friend and partner,
gone too soon for her.
tomorrow will be the well-wishers,
the relatives, the friends, and the feast -
before the vast emptiness sets in.
meanwhile, the kingdom of bones will celebrate
the arrival of its newest citizen.

98% perspiration,
2% inspiration.

most of life is spent looking for
the way to make the song sound right,
but with an accidental strum
of a chord you swear you just made up,
there it is -
the missing note you were looking for.

and the music lays out for you,
entirely different than the tune you had at first,
but better,
because it works,
and now you know the chords to use,
and it just gets better from there.

most of life is spent in that 98%,
but more living is done in that brief 2% of inspiration.

the man-machine rumbles,
precision of gears, chain, muscle and sweat,
a controlled breathing in step with cadence,
the count begins,
one, two, three -
which each revolution of the crank.

then it hits - that first sting
of wet that fell from too-heavy clouds
a thousand feet up -
it must have taken five minutes to get here,
to hit its mark.
the blood begins to pulse,
electric air crackles around as the instinct takes over,
and man and machine become fluid,
bound to one another as the second and third droplets hit,
their sound and feel the countdown to five,
when all will be loosed upon the road:
the fury of the storm matched by the fury of passion.

the fourth drop is quiet,
unremarkable,
this is when the racer draws breath.

then it hits,
and hell is released -
the flood of adrenaline has been prepped and is ready,
as legs piston and fingers tighten to white-knuckled ferocity,
the eyes narrow, and face extorts in a mixture of pain and effort,
legs extend and pull up,
body tucked as small as it can be,
the energy transferred to the pavement,
as arch-enemies collide:
as he races against the rain.

it feels broken,
like a piece inside isn't doing what it's supposed to,
and if it's shaken,
i can hear the rattle of the broken thing.
i want to fix it,
so it never rattles again,
so it never shakes, so i never have to think about it,
or worry,
but i can't,
because even though it feels that way,
it's not broken,
it's simply finding another way,
and the change takes some time to get used to.

sitting in a smoke-clouded room,
a jazz trio playing a wordless chart from memory,
a lonely sound,
meant for those like me to sip their scotch
and nod silently to those across the way -
that is the extent of our communication.
we all know why we're here,
why this place at this hour,
escaping for a moment the solitude
that is our constant companion,
just to know there are others like us
who know the words to the song the trio plays,
but we can't sing.

everyone has their good days -
successes,
triumphs,
shining moments when perfection
seems within their grasp,
and the accolades come pouring in
until the sound of the applause is almost deafening.

those aren't my best days -
mine are when i make someone's day brighter -
a kind word or deed - and no one ever notices
or says a thing.

i saw an ad in the paper,
and i wanted to answer it.

wanted:
someone to look at me
and at a glance,
take my worries away and let me know i'm loved.

but i didn't,
and now i am left to wonder if i missed out,
if they did,
if we both did,
or if i am better for not having looked down that path.
and i will never know the answer.