How Silly Questions Can Be
P. H. Madore
February 2006
February 2006
Sitting on the middle-school steps waiting for the world to change, I saw you walking up the sidewalk changing your mind.
We both know now it doesn't matter where.
Hustling on the corner of Fifth & Central Ave., I heard you were roaming the mid-west in search of life; later that what you'd found was a man, that he made you happy, and gave you a ring.
We both know now that it doesn't matter when.
Straddling my grandfather's suitcase waiting for my bus to leave again, I saw you weaving through the chaos of the street. You looked like you knew where you were going, but you hadn't changed in my eyes, and still haven't in my mind.
We both know now that our destinations didn't matter.
I was fighting for the government in Fallujah, waiting for the war to end, and you were giving birth for the second time.
Then in my last hour, I was waiting for my lungs to quit. You were in my thoughts--light brown eyes, picturesque, unforgettable, so few words for me saying so much.
We both know now how silly questions can be. That ends are what we make them–if we should've met, been together, then we should've done a thousand things we forgot, reached a thousand other points we sought, made endless conclusions lost; done everything different.
Yet I'd still be here right now, thinking about how nothing's changed, the games we play, assumptions we take, the lives at stake, decisions we make.
And maybe I'd hold your hand, drink your tears, confirm your fears–that we are, always have been, just waiting to become wind-born sand.
And I'd still wonder if dead people can think, because I'm sure they can't move, and since I don't regret, I wonder can they do that too.
P. H. Madore was born in Providence.