Out of Reach

A blue god drives in the rain.
The pink of living eludes him.
The streets are scored and sane.
The light is clouded, dim.

Failure is a hairy troll
Living under an overpass,
Whacking at the blue god’s soul,
Shouting, "You will be last!"

As if magic were a race
As if there were a best
As if he could lag the pace
As if it were a quest.

A way of seeing, a way of dreaming
A breath, a jump, a flash, a scheming
Two hands joined in tapioca sunrise
A pair of eyes closed and surprised

Magic seems out of reach for me now.
I feel like I’m just acting.
Lost in the jumble of what and how,
I feel like I’m merely reacting.

Where is the certainty of step?
Where is the vision of pink manna?
Where is the secret cookie-jar kept?
Where are the arrows of Diana?

And so I drive to work in rain
Wondering if a ‘ha’ changes anything
Carrying a private, unspoken shame
Wondering if I’ll find a way to sing.