This pit of fear is not like all the others

The pre-battle pit where friends say goodbye
wills are signed letters dispatched harmonicas played
dear sara I hope you and billy are well. at sunrise we

The gladiatorial pit where friends turn away
and life’s questions become thrusts and parries for
the entertainment of a spoiled rabble

The waiting pit for Daddy to come home from hunting
with his shotgun and his twenty-two Mossberg rifle
and a partridge or two and his very private anger
and a bottle of Dewar’s Blended Scotch Whiskey

The studying pit where the whole year’s
efforts and failures hang over a sleep deprived
anxious effort to redeem all through unknowns

The bomber’s pit where the mirror reveals
the assertion that paradise is a compelling
paradigm and that death is a step forward

And there are other pits all dug by humans
as a place to wait or to live, in slowly growing
piles of taxes forms phonecalls stock reductions
the job the classroom the street the bedroom
everywhere will serve as the pit
This pit is yours mine ours
it is a hole near this disease
it burrows through so many
I live on the edge of it
having brought you here
not willingly but because
you love me and would come
we have built our hut here
where we did not ask to come
we live, anticipate, here waiting for
the edge to crumble capriciously
as it does for some not all
we hear the earth tremble
and breathe a little easier
as each tremor passes.
Oh how I love you and hate my


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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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