the words
“we’ll cross that bridge
when we come to it”
beg for satisfaction in incompletion,
invoking the warm, teacherly voice,
her overtones crying for order
though she knows it may not be a good one
and besides, we’re on the borders too;
who’s to plan our steps?
hidden etiquettes of life demand our approval
instead of asking for it
patiently
until we consent,
or we reject it
in order to yoke our own conscience and pull
but as we patiently wait for time
it does not wait for us
and suddenly, its heart skips,
tripping our feet
to the thin, arrogant edge
of the precipice,
where we were told we’d have a bridge,
(she might have been a smidgeon wrong, of course)
but while we’re haunted by the daunting emptiness before
the ominous crumbling behind us
does not leave us with much choice.