The Iron in Irony

Taking a stroll down to the village wrapped in a mystical fog

I trip and, from my muddy landing, see it was a log

My shoulder, is it out of joint? My lip bleeds a stream of pain

Should I be surprised the skies decide to open up and rain?

 

What a day it turned out to be, what a day to discover

What a time to learn I can’t trade it for another

What a fallacy to think of life so positively

As I grope about so blindly through this reality

 

The doctor is out, the assistant tells me it is just a sprain

So I race toward the station to try and catch my train

You may guess what I missed, indeed by mere seconds

The empty tracks symbolize my lifelong empty lessons

 

What a moment this time befell

As my sprained shoulder shrugs oh well

I give up and turn to frustrated apathy

Should I perhaps invite it in to abide permanently?

 

The walk home drizzly as I gnaw my leaking lip

The slight incline prods muscles to seize around my hip

Passersby splash mudpuddles upon my weary head

How I long to be at home in my cozy bed

 

What a dreadful normality, what a dreary day

What a shock for my arch nemesis to happen by and say,

“The train you missed, my dear chap, if you were to catch it,

I had planned in my benevolent way to finally bury the hatchet.”

 

Did he know my limp was at its worst

My shoulder’s drooping like a curse

An oasis I can see but not achieve

The promise of forgiveness taunting me

 

What a notion of perspective sight, what a mixed emotion

A mermaid floats nonchalantly by as I am drowning in the ocean

A full life, full of disappointing me

The blood in my mouth tastes bitter of the iron in irony

 

By Royce Waxenfelter

11.15.23