Reason A. Poteet Poet Narrative

The Hands of Opportunity

I will hold your hand when... whenever you need a friend.
I will hold your hand and listen, your rights I will defend.
I will hold your hand until you say, "this is the end."

Opportunity knocked and my friend was caught napping.
Actually, the soft music had awakened him but
dropping my hand which he had gripped for an hour,
he walked away from the chance of a lifetime.

Many of his friends answered the call. Later he called it
a ruse (was that because he had missed it?) A ruse?
What he had refused was the hand of Providence.

Lives were energized. Death became worth the living.
He saw friends rise from the depths of tragedy to triumph.
Yet he stayed the same always watching from the sidelines,
sleeping less often on the back pew as I held his hand.

I held his hand often while he complained, excusing 
his lack of interest in things eternal. I held his hand,
squeezing it too tightly for his pleasure.

Now the knocking has become my hand knocking on his door 
but he pulls the shades and refuses any help my hand offers.
Other friends have called but he doesn't answer.
The decision was made long ago and he slowly dies with it.

He's  made his choice; he's not alone, of friends he has no lack.
From time to time, I'll check on him and pray he's changed his track.
I weep for him and stop to ask, "Did my hands hold him back?"

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