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What Is Given
Carryall and nowhere to go,
but the sign of the grateful dead
was all it took.
He took us in,
strangers parked in front of his house,
and sat us 'round his living room,
a cross, but for
one end, the door.
There he spoke as from his pulpit
and in a bleary twilight zone
we floated as
much as settled,
strangers to a stranger mundane
than anything written or played.
I even thought
if I wrote this
web of rambling we were caught in
no one would ever believe it.
What was given to him?
What was given?
Another came to cross his door,
a woman who wanted more than
to sit there in
conversation.
But he held court and her at bay,
his uncramped style on display, not
missing a beat,
he left us there
to listen and stare in silent
comment like matching end tables.
What was given to us?
What was given?
What is a life you're in or out
your passage is another's den
If there but for
the grace of god
you go, then guest or host to be
it's as a ghost you'll always see.
What is given?
What is given?
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