George Bailey

Fate is a dance on a retractable floor

revealing a swimming pool.

The threat is exciting,

the water- inviting.

Sometimes you can’t help but fall in.

A cat in a box

In Schrödinger’s thoughts

Would tell you you’ve little to say

In the matters of fate and lasers and beams,

Trapped as we are in sadistic dreams

Where false seems real and reality fake.

Mary leaned over and whispered,

Yet also, Mary did not.

It depends on the channels to which you subscribe.

It depends on George Bailey’s ever being alive,

But her words echo now while constructing these lines.

“George Bailey, I’ll love you till the day I die.”

New paths sprout up all around.

Some are searing and bright.

Some lack shadow or sound.

Stumble or wander wherever you may

For you’ve little to say in the matter of fate.

Just ask that cat in the box.

Too late.

Buffalo gals won’t come out tonight,

Say the moon’s an impractical gift,

Yet George Bailey’s dream soar.

Practicality’s a bore.

It’s a wonderful life, so long as it’s lived.