without an end in sight
or even a middle you can count on?
why, bless my soul, I guess
that's how we live, isn't it?
no wonder our lives so seldom are
any semblance of a work of art!
just a messy collection
a sequence of episodes
with nothing pulling the whole into a shape
unless some kindly biographer comes along
he smiled and remembered his last visit
a favorite uncle with less than a week to live
as it turned out
he'd sat and listened as memory after memory
tumbled out in no particular order
many involving people he'd never known
nor known his uncle had
memories of wars he'd forgotten
or never heard of
memories of affairs his uncle had had
or thought he knew about
without having participated
at least not directly
a message carrier in one case
an assignation proposed and settled on
right under the cuckold's nose
while everybody smiled and nodded
and only the two of them knew what was done
his uncle thinking he figured it all out later
not only after bedtime but after dawn
seeing the woman sweep by smiling in the hall
one earring on, one necklace hanging unclasped
down in the courtyard, the duke oddly subdued
mounted his horse and rode quietly away
while cooks still entered the kitchen
he'd listened to his uncle that strange night
and recognized he'd never thought of his uncle young
never imagined he danced or fought or carried messages
and that night he was old, so very old
dying as the fates would have it
and now all these years later he thought about his own life
and found no warp, no weave, no design
not even a purpose he'd admit to
which was how, of course
he'd entered this silly thought train
he couldn't find a stop for
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