Time and Service by Doc

I went to my high school reunion.
Met someone – too late.
Told her I'd write her a story if she’d give me a topic.
She never did ask for my story.

I read the story of Billy Pilgrim, unhinged in time
Flying about.  Out of control.
Meeting and losing Montana Wildhack.
On Tralfamadore.

Sharon and Louise.   College guides into the mysteries of femdom
Though they were only a bit less clueless than me.
I fell through a succession of their successors
Passed on from one woman to the next.

I served with no hope of anything much
Except perhaps to leave some memories.
I read the words (in translation) of Lady Midnight
A fourth-century Chinese courtesan

“Wild geese set out for their south lands
And city-bred swallows wing northward.
If you’ve lost your way, my far-off love,
Just follow the autumn wind back home.”

I bounce around the halls of dead time
Like a billiard ball, rebounding
From mistress to mistress.
Part of a game of pool in which I don’t know my role.

She is smoking.  (Who is she; I recognize the face and can’t recall the name.)
No, that was in times past.  She isn’t the same woman.
In time present she is flirting with a guy I don’t know and don’t care to know.
In the future who knows if any of us will remember this day.  Most likely not.

“What’s your wish, Miss?” I ask
She stares at me as if I’m speaking Portuguese.
She is married to a guy who tells her she has no wishes or dreams.
That makes me want to cry for her.

I’m told I should not feel compassion for my broken sisters.
I hear, “Move on; leave her in the ditch.”
I cannot.  I see myself in her.
I am she and she is me and we are family.

Objectify?  I know we’re all just clay pots.  Objects.
I trace my fingers in her grooves, incisions in the clay, letting her know I value vessels.
Clay or gold – all the same.  She is (like all lost loves) a container full of memories.
And I treasure memory.

Unhinged from time, I travel about through time.
Yesterday is today.  Tomorrow is the past.
I try to please.  To delight.  To enchant.
But -- I make a bad wizard.

The ladies in my sordid biography in fact –
Need magicians to turn them into princesses.
And I need princesses to turn me from lost Billy Pilgrim
Into a hayseed prince from rural Texas.

In the meantime I fly about.
Lost with just a single compass needle.
It points to the latest woman.
Who offers guidance as I fly through the night.