if there were great expectations

what is expected of us old
which
I’m still trying
to tell
(both kinds
of
telling)
because the line in me goes back
to childhood
with what is remembered
keenly felt
too
often

against which
I think I am supposed to be invisible
by
youthful society
of all those whippersnappers
who
don’t know
I think I’m pushed to say
how good
things are for them

yet they might know
while
I have some whipping
(unliteral but
sharp)
and some
(whatever)
snapping still to
snap

new robes of office
like those honestly
wary
by the lords in Macbeth
or
the pretending gift of Medea’s
poisoned cloak
that
once worn bursts in flame
for
all our sins
piled on to curse

to prove energy
though
delight can become danger
when
expended

if like the artist
no longer young yet
working out
significance in what is now
(again
obliged)
the dry time of
the day

so then try
untry
if not unfeared the journey not
untrapped
by who is the child
who
is older

c l couch


photo by Lisa Yount on Unsplash
[still wanting to fly]