CRYSTAL BALL GAZING

A fringed scarf covered the round Chippendale.
The room was always in shadows, except for the light
from the overhead Tiffany where
a stray beam penetrated the dark
through a space where
a purple grape used to be.

The glass ball was always there underneath the light
catching the colors from the lamp above
and tossing them about like
infinite mirrors in a tiny space.

But the movement was my movement as I circled the table,
intrigued by the flashes of light.
Its fascination held me in its spell.
For hours I would look into its depths,
the splinters of light,
the shards of color,
the fragments of imagination
coming together in my mind.

The more I stared into the glass ball,
the more I looked into my own soul.
I saw the future--my future--
the daydreams of a young boy who
would save the world,
feed the hungry masses,
cure the ills of humanity,
and do all those things
that politicians only promised.

But the years have passed.
The glass ball is on the shelf
somewhere where the light does not reach it.
When I look into it now,
I see only what might have been.
The light is still fractured like
the remnants of a shattered life,
the ghosts of people unloved,
deeds undone,
hopes unrealized.

The dark shadows of the past have lengthened
as my light is spent.
I have given up crystal ball gazing.
There's no future in it.


--Harry L. Serio
March, 1989