SPECULATIONS


A,

Speculatively
I offer that
Life
May be a good piece of wood,
Good wood
In the hands of somebody
Who doesn't know us
Very well.
He whittles away at us
With a sharp knife
And we hope
He will give us
Shape and form
And be something,
Become somebody,
Have substance
And do things
And become whole.

The vacant look
In those eyes
Foretells my catastrophe
But he is still whittling
And I am still hopeful . . .

B,

. . . alas,
I had forgotten that
This is still life
And those hands,
Viciously idle,
Have whittled past me
Vacantly
Into meaningless
Splinters,
Into nothingness.