Doubt

Life isn’t about,

Gardens filled with daisies, or day dreams, with their lingering scents, and feelings.

It isn’t about the prints of warm fingers pressed against a cold beer glass,

And connected to the smile of someone fearless for a second, surrounded by friendly faces.

It’s about that lady,

You saw on the bus, commuting,

’At that age? What a pity,

Her smile must’ve gotten stuck like that, when she turned sixty,’ you were thinking.

And you returned to your quiet dread,

As the bus rolled forward to your next forty years,

Halting in the driveway of your estate, all success, and luxury,

And hauntings,

From the lady on the bus, who never left those moments,

In her garden, or with her friends.

Your gardener will wave at you, every morning,

And you will be overcome with vicious jealousy.