“Sacrifice”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

A sacrifice of self

Browsing through personalities pilfered from the bookshelf

Each one with its own appeal

A difficult decision, over which one to steal

This is the conundrum I face

While considering the shrink of my personal space

To a square, constricted

As I sit here, feeling conflicted

The chronology of a mortal span

Defining who and what I am

With an effective curve of the grade

An arc, dutifully displayed

In a time long lost, I was confident to leap

Under a bridge, falling fast asleep

A stone for my pillow

Dirt and dust, below

It amused me to face challenges that were pressing and dire

Rotating ‘round the spokes of a bicycle tire

I was worn but undeterred

My only quest was a call to be heard

And when, by chance, an ear inclined

I marveled at that gift as if it were fancy and fine

To think that a listener lingered for long enough

To hear me tell stories of living in the rough

A black leather sheaf and boots on the concrete

High-stepping like a Clydesdale, along North Cayuga Street

I could tread a dozen miles in a day

Many years before becoming a dried-out lump of clay

One no longer easily shaped by a potter at the wheel

A measure of mud shorn of its appeal

My identity is one taken off the rack

An accurate rendering of qualities that I lack

This is the style of an artist at the canvas

To portray what emerges from the emotional abyss

I am what I pretend to be

I am what my mind can conceive to see

Eyes forward, and sharp

Angels plucking at the lyre and harp

As a tonal background for the poetic bard

A mastery of misplaced keys and a shuffle of cards

A few pages further, will I go

To populate this show

Would it surprise you to hear me admit

That my range of talent hasn’t amounted to shit?

I am the same peripheral scholar at work

On the edge of a literary quirk

Written in pencil on a laundry receipt

Which now lies curled and crumpled, at my feet

A note of yesterday passed

A glimmer now gone, reflected in the window glass

Through which I see the horizon as sunset unfolds

And the hollow state of my soul

Something I must confront when readiness comes

With a washboard and a barrel, a rattle and hum

Stomping out a rhythm on the floor

As did stars of the stage, in performances of yore

Fingering frets

Singing of sacrifice and regrets

And needing to walk around the room to loosen the grip

Of an arthritic episode, spun in a film clip

Lens toward the heavens to catch

A glimpse of fates that remain unmatched

This gallery of faces is mine to peruse

Which one is my doppelganger? Which one will I choose?

It is a flight of fortune, founded on a wish

To be bolder than a tumbler of Grand Macnish

Raised at a downtown pub, with chums from the avenue

While a quartet of performers play Jazz and Blues

And I remember that my original cause

Was to evade the clutching of clandestine claws

And make my choice