Remains of the Dig

or

Years after the Divorce

                                                            Peering through the rusty grill

I see, in light diffused,

a project abandoned:

Rolls of poster paper

lie thick under dust.

Information unprocessed,

proclamations never made

The tools of the trade:

trowels, brushes and pans,

neatly stacked years ago

when the funding ceased

and, once ardent archeologists,

stored their hopes

at the end of the dig.

That was the time

when love ran out

and passion could conjure no more.

When the milk curdled,

when dust,

 gathered

day by day,

determined

to daunt the brightness,

sap the energy to polish,

kill the courage to shine

A stack of old camp cots,

their webbing sadly perished,

guard a pile of ancient cannon balls.

In pentecostal supplication

they are waiting to be born again,

praying for the repetition of a miracle

now lost in impotence.

Safely padlocked, under a sturdy roof

the substance of failure rests in peace.

To the observer from outside

it tells its own pathetic story

I rub the nostalgic rust

I stroke the gate that bars me

 from past participation.

Freely I walk away.

Happy to have been a part;

happier still, to be apart.