the complete history of the off-the-cuff line, abandoned by its creator

the line was pure poetry.

the line was universal in the cosmic sense of the word.

the line was truth personified.

the line was spiritual.

when written to be visual, the line was

no more than six inches long with a script

face in concert to the line’s length.

but the line wasn't meant to be written.

it was never meant to be seen as a line.

it was never documented as such.

the line was spoken in a whisper

lingering between its creator and me.

it was never repeated,––

not through two parallel adult lifetimes, nor

an endlessly changing geography, or tempestuous seasons,

or marriages, combined kids, or upon the limitless

paper trails of obituaries of which me and the creator have

heretofore escaped with our lives. 

and I waited for the creator to repeat the line,

to indicate authorship, to admit his responsibility to it,––

the line which has followed me through countless shadows,

friendships, more than any man's share of uniquely fine women,

and as I recall, four to seven parakeets.

we sailed headstrong to weather, scaled

the mountain of years from both its slopes,

opposed the furor of jungle warfare, and resented

the lazy attitude of peace, just like any two sane men.

when spoken, the line could shut the politician's lousy mouth,

wither the priest's foul hand, enlighten the Pope at the first

thought of impending black smoke,–– 

and through it all, the line lingered in the shadows, voiceless,

yet ever-present, unrelenting, abandoned by its creator,–– the line,

wading through decades of nonexistence for the right poem-

writer to come along, from the northern light of the art school's

windows of 1963 "life-drawing" class to now,–– to breathe back

into its lungs its singular life:

“if there was a bus to Paris in the morning, I’d be on it.”