It began as a hole punched in a page
in November, in a garage precinct
after waiting in line, shifting our legs,
removing our coats and our
shared beliefs.
The altitude changed when we walked outside
as if driveway and street had become a cliff,
a chasm across which we’d taken sides—
or actually between us
an Everest.
I may be granting it magnitude—
the political daggers, the personal rift
may only be me, or only a few,
and I can’t attest to the others
who drift,
and time has a history of blurring the truth.
I trusted our stars had aligned in the night,
but apparently in the eyes of our truth
there floated a view beyond
my sight.
Looking back now, I see that the ties
of a friendship we were certain could last
were crushed in a storm of political lies,
and boulders obscured the
road to our past.
Will we once again travel that road
or journey beyond such granite demands?
Because now on the altar of a vote
are the souls of those who
once were friends.
