Fragments And Reflections

A Late Night Home

I should write it down, this day that changed lives,

 some for worse, none that I know for better.

It would be a tired hand that scratched the words,

an entry in today’s journal of hours,

ending in wine and Pyrrhic victories.

But I am resentful and bored and, though

between my conscience and the day’s ruin

men in wheeled chairs screeched drunkenly on the

underground, like doomed, demented prophets,

and though electric Finns rasped and howled and

sawed their guitars with charged malevolence,

I know that sober recollection will

see my intentions buried in the dust

of another tomorrow’s challenges.

So, let others record the follies that

led here, the careless words that convicted,

and let me dream courageous symphonies

that reckon the soul and quiet the mind:

a poet’s retreat to solitude’s grace

and the Banshee fantasies that taunt me.