Context — When real life in retrospect is always a palpably identifiable human story, why do we pretend there aren’t narratives to our single days?
The elderly retell childhood with ease,
their flings, dates, jobs, moves, best shenanigans.
They tell us time moves quickly as it please,
past want to set when things began. Akin
to Fates they wrote about in ancient Greece,
who hidden from protagonist would sing
for audience mercurial caprice
that they delightfully each act would bring.
As grandpa sits reflecting decades gone,
his story Everyman’s, it’s hard to think
that some believe that people aren’t but pawns
aboard prodigious board, where Fates’ hands clink
a piece from checkered black to white to black
as bade by shifting cosmic almanac.