deadlines

today at the dinner table

we spoke of death

a colonizer, proud of his creed

leaving wakes of horror

yet his name, taboo

his shadow, in view

today at the market

we spoke of prom queens

a conversation between husband and son

of their everlasting beauty

captured by a click and lost in a flash

heralded by all

remembered by none

today at the park

we spoke of others, critically.

of their ill looks and pompous wisdom

staring past each other

as if we weren’t speaking of ourselves

today, in our comments of flourish and famine

we spoke only of impermanence -

but we did not speak

of deadlines.

particularly,

our own

a metronome, timed

counting the rhythm of a miserable fate

where withering bodies walk in the light;

to climb over the horizon

ending in the night, where ash knuckles break their grip

falling towards an abyss of a tall man’s depth

tonight there is silence.

our spoken words render no meaning

as bones scratch glass

in a race with no victors