Predestined

June slam poetry.

Turning fecund pages into fortunes we
prepare to clasp hands until the palms
flush red.
Precarious in our ivory towers
we fear remoteness,
lacing sangfroid graces with
the oncoming hour of eventual destiny
that pronounces a coup-de-etat.
Initial refutation, from the
mouth of a fashionable maverick,
frays the quiet existences watching
out for Mother Nature
who struggle peripherally,
netting small fish for protection
and praying novenas against
potential hurricanes,
circling like a patrol in lightweight
crafts. There can be no
forgiving.
We turn to study our own selfish
profiles,
while the ambiance is stretched
beyond reasonable limits.
Glasses of French wine are distributed
as tokens.
Echoes of disappointed remarks
murmur,
too soon
too soon.