Under his satirical ceiling we sat
Simply to chat about this and that

But the mood grew somber and sullen
Discussing great men who had fallen
And for a few moments neither of us spoke…

I stared up and away
I could think of nothing to say
And then it struck me like Newton’s apple
Fallen from a tree in Eden

“Mike…” I ventured
“Why couldn’t their fingertips touch?”

He raised his head as though weighted with lead
And for the longest time, a hiatus in rhyme
His gaze pierced that dual portrait…

I have seen many men weep
A wonder that washes over me in both cold and warm tides
But Michelangelo’s tears could not be defined
Pouring forth from a vessel of shattered pride
I watched him uncomfortably
Upset at my question’s transgression…I looked up once more

Unlike before, I saw it, hidden in the space
The looks on faces, chastened, I saw it:

They were not nearly touching
Not almost, not even close, nowhere near
And it was suddenly clear, it could not hide
The divide!
Oh, the divide!
The distance so dramatic, so drastic

His intention was not dimension, but the action itself!
A reaching breaching that vast space
The answer in Adam’s careless face, in Newton’s open hand
A lump forming on the back of his head and mind

I looked back to Mike, ready to weep with him
But composure gained, eyes strained, he answered
with a smile
“I hate painting on damp plaster.”
“Oh,” I replied, catching my breadth.