If promise shatters without anyone touching it, if it pops like a floating soap bubble that lost its cohesion, what do I do? Name names? I can’t even take fingerprints. Sometimes dreams just end. No fault or blame is attached. The ice breaks under its own weight and nothing can be done. I am more than just holding on. I am alive even if all the promises melt away. I can accept the unexpected and the unasked for and still know this doesn’t affect my worth. My value is intact regardless of disappointment or discontent. I have learned that anticipation is mere amusement; promises are pleasantries. I am made of stronger stuff. I am not broken by words, ideas or hope. Promise can be broken but it doesn’t break me.
Open the mental crayon box.
Where’s Your Chair?
Is the ring more unnatural for the tamer or the lion?
One the trapped, the other the trapper.
Who is the more in danger;
the one with loss of freedom
or the one with possible loss of life?
And while this question is still in play
the next question is begged. Why is there a ring?
What is worth the price paid
by the whip holder or the whipped?
Spectacle is a thing whose cost
reaches from the forest to the trees;
can take you from the highest rung
down to your knees.
All this lost for some Owwe’s and Ah’s
from people needing diversion
from the ring they turn tricks in.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault