Every appointment presupposes a janitor
Who scrubs the place down with lye.
Who remembers a cliff by the river named
For someone who didn't really do anything at all.
A cliff where the spectators gathered
At dusk for a performance that was rumored
To take your breath away even if you had
Fine lungs. But the truth, as is often the case,
Was something different. A condor-like
Apparition rose on the other side.
And everyone thought it was going to speak.
They nudged one another with their elbows.
But no sooner had the thing cleared its
Throat by way of preamble, than the heavens
Opened and the poison arrow frogs came to life.
It was as if they'd been waiting years
For this moment and they weren't going to let
The elements get in their way.
We admire a stubbornness of this sort that sounds,
At first note, like despair. It turns
The mind into a corner, replete with men
Standing around barrel fires and traffic signals with arms
That come out of the side and tell you
Whether to stop or proceed. Because everyone knows
Light isn't going to get the job done by itself.