This poem was inspired by a poem written by my dear friend, Jerome Gastaldi, whom you may know as Bob Abbott. The last stanza starts . . .
Some do not want to know.
For the pain of knowing
Is the death
Of their illusion.
—Jerome Gastaldi
Riding the train.
A pane of glass is all
that separates the sacrosanct
from the profane.
A crude sketch—
golden triangles
atop American-grown rectangles—
slides off the page,
a screaming countryside,
a smeared canvas.
I place my 50-year-old hand
on top of the glass,
trying to catch
the trees without faces.
These faceless creatures—
a Tolkien script stuffed
into a Tim Burton stocking—
run to keep up,
hurdling power lines
on spider’s legs.
I feel like Einstein
riding a beam of light.
Nothing is faster than
my memory of that day,
or, was it night?
Dreams of decapitated shapes
drive in circles,
or, am I awake?
Illusion is remaining
on this locomotive island,
enticed by Calypso,
determined to catch
a glimpse of reality,
when in reality,
truth is borrowing Merton’s passport,
heading home to Ithaca—
a port just beyond the storms.
“For the pain of knowing”
is the reference point
to growing into the reflection
of the canvas within—
a whisper that breaks glass.