the best that I could

all the rights
and wrongs
of my life,
standing,
in a greeting line,
some perky
(the rights),
and some somber
(the wrongs),
and they all stare at me,
earnestly,
to see how I will
greet them:
with gladness
(the rights)
or with sadness
(the wrongs),
and to see which one
will cause me to take
flight,
abandoning
introspection,
and seeking only
the light of
deflection,
the denial of
responsibility,
the entrenchment
of mendacity:
and I am dumbstruck,
out of luck,
as I am left to my own
pitiful devices,
trying to make
recompense
out of meager slices
of intentions gone awry,
measures of nothing:
images written in the sky
but seen only by me;
not intention,
nor serendipity,
only blameful,
shameful,
me;
in the end,
I bow to them all,
and decline,
very respectfully
to make any judgment at all,
and I retreat
to my corner complete,
to see my end
play out, undiscussed,
to have my ups and downs,
judged by
eternal clowns,
since I always did
the best
that I could.



March 17, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All right reserved.