The Comedians                                                  

            She turned the exaltation of regret
            Into an art

            A handkerchief became a source of acrimony,
            Every singer’s voice was flat
            And men embodied empty-headedness
            Compared to what she had
            Which in possession, when possessed,
            Lay dormant for a future
            Always out of reach

            Though less an artist
            He felt, frankly, much the same,
            With different cues –
            For him a turn of phrase was twisted
            And the airs of women, once delightful, 

            The children seemed to sour and bend
            Within their arc
            Like drunken insects never quite
            Locating hive or hill

            Now, after years apart,
            They held a hand out to each other
            Like a makeshift bridge
            On the proscenium

            Somehow they found the power
            To abscond
            And took a stroll along the strand
            Bereft of audience –
            The more to rue, perhaps

            Lucky for them that night
            A length of cloud stretched low
            Across the waters
            Like forgotten lace

            The stars, the same old unfamiliar stars,
            Created shadows

            She let the mountains in the distance
            Speak for her,
            He let the sea

            Between them both 
            An incense sweet and pungent
            Rose and dissipated quickly overhead,
            Their cooling signature


            Emanuel E. García, Wandering Bark2013