on ice

it’s difficult to know exactly

how many of them are gone

but the percentage is high

not the one’s who’ve lost their way

the fallen down, mis-directed

temporarily out of focus

I’m talking about the ones

already dead

given up their last soul’s breath

even though their hearts

keep beating

who still occasionally

play a round of golf

drink up at the bar

kiss their spouses

pat their children on the head

the ones who walk the corridors

of hell

tethered to a distant feeling

only vague memories keep connected

maybe it was the possession

of a Mickey Mantle baseball card

from 40 years before

that made them the envy

of every kid in grammar school

or a date with the captain

of the High School basketball team

the night they parked by the lake

and he wept in her arms

told her he was sorry

how by chance and rotten luck

those points slowly slip

further and further away

replaced with nothing ever as bright

and the light that lit their orbits

over time fades too

until it is gone

and they are left with nothing

but the rest of their lives

to be dead in.

***

By NEIL BROSNAN: on ice