“Throat”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-25)

 

It sticks in my throat

That joy for the few comes in a glimmer of daylight

While more fortunate sons and daughters stay up all night

Chortling over the embrace of luck or happenstance

A product of choice and chance

Which comes wrapped in gold foil

From laborers who till the soil

Offering up a prayer of gratitude when rain falls

When gray clouds soak the sky

And children wipe the mist from their eyes

I might have joined that chorus of creditors

If not for being of lowly birth

Nestled in my crib, close to the earth

Anonymous, in swaddling clothes

When I hear the roll called, and realize

That my name is not included

For a VIP entry

With the gentlest, gilded gentry

It makes me certain of my intended path

A line drawn in ink, on a yellowed, Sohio road map

Dare I veer astray?

That sin might cause a stir

A reason for wise words to be deferred

Until better days amend

I used to pick apart the tales of Roman conquest

Thinking hard about their centuries of success

And my own lack of the same

But somewhere, late in the eve

I found that a loose brick in the basement wall

Sufficed, sufficiently

That escape trick evoked a slip of laughter

A footstep into the great hereafter

Taken, toe-first

Nose into the musty space

Peering through the imaginary gale storm, a-brewing

Wondering what I was doing

When pulling the ripcord on my poetic, skydiver jump

Booted off the plane

That tumble out of the cargo hold

Into the vacuum-bottle of a mortal soul

Fraught with failings and foibles

Arranged in strands of knitted, synthetic yarn

Causing me to turn like a corkscrew, on the way down

Flailing and failing

To appear confident before those waiting on the ground

I might have done better

To remain a seminal seed

Bred for my potential

A take on the eventual

The capricious yield of a gambler’s toss, chips pushed in

Cards to the chest

The outline of a shadow drawn in hues with no names

Vest buttoned to the chin

A pocket square folded once, and again

Which of these descriptions is the most astute?

A bloodborne pathogen, or a birthday suit?

I have lost count by that point in this exercise

And so, for relief, I close my eyes

Just for a moment, so as not to lose my mental check

A guitar pick rested on the cusp of a sunset

Low over the horizon’s edge

A crow’s talon, clinging to the ledge

Wings fluttering wide and strong

Feathers gleam with the grandeur of a genetic sire

I could not hope to rise

In a flight through those thundering skies

I am merely a serf at the moat

Guilt and innocence, carried in on the same boat

I must admit

That it sticks in my throat