Servants of the Moment


They talk, in no uncertain terms, about the strangers
Those benignly listening outside nondescript motel rooms
Places people stay when they’re very lonely
Hoping to hear something, anything
Reminding them of even the small things
They were born to remember

I’ve been there, like you, and back
That place you wished, at the time, never existed
But in retrospect, you hope lives forever
Some low-pitched moan, or an unrepentant whisper
Giving notice, paying homage
To the chance to start over again

At times I think
Nobody will ever know
Why I was here, or what I did so significantly
Warranting me a place, ever so humble
Beneath the giant oak tree–
The one under which
We took shade as youngsters

Now at fifty-nine
Somehow I find the courage to remember
Not only who I am
But why I was called here in the first place
And now hearing this answer
I can gladly give it all, a servant to the moment

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