My Knees Buckled

My Knees Buckled

 

It was not clear whether I had been
left in your care.
Others laughed as I fell
down the stairs.
Was it the way my knees buckled,
the way I struggled to grab the banister
and find my feet again?
I wish more people would think twice,
even once would do,
an ounce of consideration before
they lock the door down tight and
decide they know my fate.
Believe me, it was never my intent
to lie crumpled like the want ads
at the bottom of the landing.
Nor did I plan to do it twice.

Decades ago I could find a room
filled with paisley pillows, sandalwood incense
and corners where friends talked, scribbled
and planned the magic we dreamed for the world.
Sometimes wine, sometimes weed,
but mostly rolled up together in the need to
believe better days for the world that seemed
far too crazy
to ban warfare for good.

It was not certain whether time had been
broken in pieces.
Others massed at the borders insisting that
life was so much better “back then”. And
my
knees
buckled.

Somewhere I dropped the dream. Sometime after
the King offered me a place in the court, a place of honor,
the jester, of course. And I followed wild and cautious,
tiptoe and raucous for one brief chapter. I was told
by those in the know
that serious study would be required.
So, gaining my voice I lost my mime,
and made everything so plain there could be
no mistake.

Decades later I find a room,
and want to be a clown again.
I’ll light my incense, call a retired
carney or two,
and ask if we might dance again
in the park,
in the court,
in the rain,
in the shortest moments between
scribbles and songs.
And for once, at the end, the magic
will be new again, be eternal again,
like friends who can’t wait to hug
like we hugged back then.