Last night when I left them, tired and bleary eyed
as I was, it was late, and they were still going at it,
tensions were high, guns blazing, the action was
spiraling, ascending, just reaching a point when
I felt a long break was needed, so I was off to bed,
and they froze in place, punches half thrown, bullets
pausing just short of their targets, everything half
realized, suspended, waiting; now here they are,
just where I left them, a hundred pages deep, ready
to start off where we left off, conflict heading for
a conclusion, their motives, behavior, and destinies
set, Iām sure that if I stopped and mapped them all out
I would find the pattern of things, the structure set,
these people were never meant to be alone, authors,
even this one whose name I would have to check on
the title page, set their inevitable end, and I play my
part, pick their book up and put it down whenever
I choose, their lives controlled by folks they will
never meet, and never get to question or understand,
and they are over their waiting again, while I, master
of the moment, stops to say something about them.
