I once knew a man in a chair
made of cracked maroon hide,
he was wreathed by reefs of smoke
rooted in pipe-glow, and he told me
how youth was all maybes: maybe
I'd pan for gold in a cold course,
maybe love would drape me flashing
in slices like Christmas tinsel, or
maybe I'd **** someone who stumbled
into the road under pitiless wheels.
It's all just a handful of maybes,
held loose, dealt at random
as our paths divide, divide again,
divide into myriad matrices
of still further divisions: because
we're plural, we're entire armies
of fortune, and we fill cemeteries
with our regrets. Strange-faced
angels are also our oldest devils,
& anything can happen to anyone.
Until, said my friend with the pipe,
you reach a certain point in life
when maybe thickens to never.
When sourdough hearts know
that division is over, and it's entropy
steering our dwindling gambles,
when the lacunae are closer, more real
than memories of any yesterday.