Irreconcilable
By Dave Margoshes
What if I were a postman and you were a letter.
What if Muhammad had gone to the mountain
but taken a wrong turn, if the mountain
had come to Muhammad but he had refused
its entreaties the way a fish, if it feels neglected
or abused, will deign to take the hook. Do they
really think its danger can’t be seen through
the sumptuous flesh of the worm, the erotic dance
of the mayfly? What if I were a Chevrolet,
you a third-generation driver of Fords?
Would there be a chance for reconciliation
or compromise? What if you were the ball
Willie Stargell hit, second out, bases loaded,
top of the ninth, Yanks trailing by two, I
the grass-slick leather cup of Mays’ glove,
the sun in his eyes, all the indications of error
blaring. Some differences are irreconcilable,
some sorrow inconsolable. What if I were
the things you said of me, you the offended party?
