Slow-pitch Softball

what if life is a runway and we’re planes waiting in line
a holding pattern
until we get clearance for takeoff

what if life is only a stage, not in the theater sense,
but more like a stretch of travel
like Illinois to California

what if life is a parking lot in decay
where only the desperate gather
to share desperation

what if life is a juxtaposition of images
the dying and the already dead
walking hand in hand

what if life is the bathroom of the bar
we take a piss and contemplate
before scribbling something witty on the wall

what if life is a johnboat in the middle of a lake
with a man holding a shotgun
aiming at imagined fish

what if life is a word in the middle of a sentence
in the middle of a paragraph on a page
in the middle of the book

what if life is just a word to convey a thought
but only one word
in which all articulation must occur

what if life is a canoe in that same lake
drifting all alone
with waves for friends

what if life is that bathroom at the bar
where no one ever dials the numbers
left all over the walls

what if life is a contradiction of ideas
in the same mind at the same time
full of confusion

what if life is still a parking lot in decay
but the desperate gather to pray
even in the rain

what if life is a stage, in the theater sense
and your character is always the same
like Iago or Desdemona

what if life is a runway and your plane is gaining momentum,
thrust, lift, and now altitude
soon we’ll break the cloud cover.