Then what you said missed me,
continued on, became an echo
took on distance, like distance
on the map of the world we have
on the family room wall, so much
distance that it crossed borders
and bodies of water, it spoke in
various languages, impossible for
me to translate. What you said
traveled off into space, passed
planets and moons, discovered
worlds of words, all spoken but
missed by the person who should
have heard them. What you said
took off into time – days, weeks
months, centuries, whole ages of
time, eons plus. What you said
missed me and became everything it
was capable of, became the opening
and closing, first and last words said
to anyone in the space we’re allotted.
They were important but somehow
I missed them.
////////
J. K. Durick is a retired writing teacher and online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Third Wednesday, Black Coffee Review, Kitchen Sink, Synchronized Chaos, Madswirl, Journal of Expressive Writing, and Highland Park Poetry.
Lightwood 