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And sensibility. Den’s narrative
Thus far, he sees now, lacks maturity,
A consequence of inability
To put forced stanzas by and only live
His language, though it goes unread
And unrewarded. No more self-deceit.
He’ll go home, face his folks, work in a shop,
Pay off his debt and wait for the day when
He’s had a life to write about. Just then
A scuffed blue Volkswagen grinds to a stop
At the round-shouldered curbside up the street.
A dreadlocked woman climbs out to assist
Her passenger, a thin girl of mixed race,
The younger of the two and yet more frail
With bandages in lieu of bridal veil
Surmounting her exquisite, battered face
And wedding flowers clutched in one trembling fist
To emphasise the matrimonial air.
Their car left at the corner of the block
One helps the other slowly up the hill
Out of Den’s line of sight, though he can still
Hear their muffled exchange before they knock
The door of the lone house that’s standing there,
This summons answered after a long pause.
There’s conversation too hushed to make out
Before the women, minus one bouquet,
Return to their parked car and drive away,
A striking vignette which leaves Den in doubt
Regarding its effect, still more its cause,
But then, the world won’t scan as poetry.
