Could

If ‘could’ were a real word
it would first present with danger
distant danger with a shiver
then lingering on the back
of the throat with wishfulness
turning to gossamer innocence.

When my style was slim steel
I could have been a scholar
nursed by library stacks
drunk by afternoon on facts
crafting out of handworked clay
stone statements statuesque.

Could spoke to me in strains
in flat and swollen modulations
could led diminished me furtively into
the clutches of dominant and major
part of me was a performing tiger
tempted by the musical circus.

Although I was a writer of sorts
with the spin of a few otherwises
perhaps I could have lived
the life of a writer writing less
making more by public pondering
about my meaning with a glass of chablis.

With ambition and false religion
could poisoned efforts and fancies
could reversed or branched off
every line drawn in my sand
dashed every ray from my hand
and allowed what happened.

Lightly guided by my mother
I could’ve been some sort
of cook or another dicing
concepts into a career or
icing some cake of accomplishment
and freezing the leftovers.

What could’ve I cooked in my hot
cauldron or poured in to hot
molds or blown via pipettes
into glass menageries suitable
for placement on a mantle
if only could were a real word.

At the fountain at the pond
on warm winter morn beyond
imagining I pull back my
chattering curtain and survey
my kingdom my tightly inlaid
mosaic of unfaded tiles.

The convoluted brain makes
what the fleshy hand holds
close and dear out of all
the days the sun sold to you
and you paid for.

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About mrsorenson

all over the place
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