The day history was left for what it was
and the present was written
with a hope soaked pen
I wasn’t watching the man
all ears were drawn to
and all eyes were embracing
No
I watched the wrinkled white man
in the audience behind
Mr. Change’s right shoulder
My left
The wrinkled white man who sat there
with eyes closed
and head lifted towards the cold sun
leaving every inch of his printed past
footprints of memories left on his face
for the wind to touch
freely
I watched him take in the words
and wrap them around his dreams like a warm scarf
Somewhere between the lines
the camera decided to leave my old man
I didn’t see him again
I don’t know if he opened his eyes
in time
to witness the standing ovation
the birth of a poem
the witty preacher man
I don’t know
But I sure hope he opened them
in time
to see how the spin-doctor of eight years
got spun out of the capital
in a wheelchair
Yes, indeed
one must take pity on the ones
who climb
only to fall
in the traps of history
All is well that ends well
right
No
wrong
Wrinkled colorless women
in my mind
frown at me
No
If hope is running through our pens
and veins
these days
we must say
all that begins well will end well
I only hope we have enough clean sheets
and ink to go around
© Najiba Abdellaoui
