Resignation/Defiance

Remember how you used to stand
on this rock
and scream “A Man Said to the Universe”
at the top of your lungs?
The resigned lines were, in their
own way, an act
of defiance —
in resigning to the indifference
of the universe, you
defied the resignation
to an other-worldly will.

Your voice would crack
at all the right moments,
just enough to make each
recitation unique in its passion
and zeal
and cinematically-timed
perfection.
The audience of bugs
and lizards and
dirt and
clouds
would almost applaud,
almost brought
to tears by your masterful
performance.

Resignation/Defiance

And each time,
when you’d finished,
you would hesitate for
just a moment
before climbing down,
caught up in the moment,
moved by your impassioned
sense of unimportance,
by the liberation of embracing
your ant-like
meaninglessness.

A time or two,
I even saw a tear form
in your eye.
Had you been a true performer,
the tears would have sparkled
and ran — sparsely,
of course — down one side
of your face with each
of your near-nightly
appearances.
But you weren’t quite
good enough for such theatrics.

Resignation/Defiance

No, the tear always appeared
unexpected, uninvited,
a strange and holy guest
to this scene, where,
until that point,
you had conducted your
symphony with precision.
But now —
now you were vulnerable.

Until — off! You’d leap
to the ground
and bow to your
adoring admirers.