Barroom Philosophy

A time too short,
a dream, a respite,
a brief glimpse into another world,
a plane of perfection
that bisects our own on freak, fluke occasions
to spark our hearts and incite our minds.
And, as quickly, we've passed through --
back into the humdrum,
to the reality that's been constructed
not enough by our own hands
but more by others'.
Maybe though,
with passion and assiduousness 
(and a soft click of the Ruby Red Heels for luck)
we can shape the bleak, unwieldy clay of everyday life
and find again that place
we shared bittersweetly --
the warm caresses,
the longing glances,
the tingle of anticipation,
and the comfort of nearness,
daubed with muted splashes of neon
and reflected in the rippling puddles of city rain.
What catalyst,
what miracle elixir (if there is one),
could make real the vision in my head,
that spirit, or more gremlin,
who taunts and goads me
with the whispered promises
of gossamer possibilities,
possibilities plausible enough
to make the heart yearn
and the mind reel
but that always draw back
from even the faintest clutch?
(And I begin to feel the misery of Tantalus.)
Could I find such an elixir,
I would drink deeply,
to bring back and taste again
the full, cranberry lips
and gold-gilded breasts,
the sonorous, soothing laugh
and disarming smile,
the eyes full of hope and caution
and tinctured with a smoldering belief in the fantastic.
Lives intertwine
like the writhing snakes of the caduceus, 
she consoled me with a gesture in a bar.
Little comfort it offers
as I wrestle with the venemous sting of absence,
and wonder if she's right.

Back where you came from