Homing
Jake Roberts
Steam breaks the illusory seal
Of calm, leaking from room to room,
Touching, as it goes, the seated ghosts
Who laughed, drank and mused
In this workshop of innocence,
This Russian-doll chamber where treaties
Or whispers fused, mingled and died.
Rising through the open window to taste
The conversations of a thousand
Nights before, when new faces
Clasped each other in delight
And giggled with tipsy camaraderie.
Quiet cigarette butts sit distant in-kind,
Soliloquies lost in each smoking tide.
Rising to the meeting place up the stairs:
Chapel for tired souls who outlast
The bullish revelry. Here in daylight
We seek the same salvation;
Our enclave’s knitted hearth
Is company, a collage of people-past
Watch the scene from the gallery.
Through the mist, dinner for two or three,
We pilgrims, magi, who dine on talk
Await the plating of news we heard
Last week but need confirmed
And eat until our jaws ache.
The slippage of time, the wander back
Lit brighter than before our mass.
Like homing pigeons, we loop to return.
Not to conclude, nor speak
A final truth, but to nurse
The warmth, the beginning,
The Great Moving Upwards;
Nurse our joys, our untruths,
Our temporary selves.
Built to grow out of, loved in embryo,
deserving of youth;
The end looms, we love faster.