Sooner or later

 

someone will chronicle

these moments:

a woman who often wept

holds open a glass door

etched with a red mask

painted with silver tears,

letting the memories run

in a sympathy of clouds,

a face rendered unknowable.

 

Who will catch history

as if unfolds, unwrinkles,

when a man chases down

a train, leap to catch a hold

on the closing door,

only to have that door

catch his right leg

as it closes, leaving him

suspended, mostly out,

as the engine pulls away

from the station

while his scream accelerates,

cuts across above his right

knee, the rails singing

a dark lullaby?

 

Who can be trusted to capture

the blind magician’s misery

whose pigeons and rabbits,

and even his long, colored scarfs

all disappeared, leaving him

with the lonely two of clubs?

 

Is there a diarist, a blogger,

a keeper of a daily journal

willing to detail the agony

required of an arthritic man

trying , and failing, to open

his child-proof Rx bottles

of relief? These thing we ask

as if someone cared,

because we must.

Richard Weaver