It was as though you were being
spied upon by some kind of benign thief
too scrupulous even to imitate
your voice, her intention being
to take "you" as a model
replacing you with her analysis.

Can such people be benign?
Yes, yes, they can apparently.
Afterwards she handed over
the solution to your life's maze
with the air of a pavement
sketch artist. There, it's done.
You handed her your last penny
and she handed you a map
she had quickly made of your life.

Her depths were in the gutters
of her utterances. Her depths
were in her arguments, or in
directions they pointed out to you —
wrong turnings crossed off once
and forgotten. Here in the middle
of the beginning of the end
I remembered her kind eyes,
her even voice evenly telling me
which turn to make to get out.

I'd place my hand on one hedge
if I were you, unless I had all
the time in the world, enough to make
every conceivable mistake.
I'm afraid that's the way it is
with you, she said, resign yourself
to a long, circling journey
and to passing by everything twice.

Copyright © John Muckle, 2004.