Aldous Pause

As I walked through the State of Mind,
I came upon a spot where I knew
Aldous Huxley had been.

In a place without writing on a wall,
pause reverently bestowed its will.
The past's incessant nudging pressed
against my back with the weakened force
of a hall of self reflective mirrors.

I had danced the square dance,
but never the minuet;
I had jazzlessly jitterbugged
through war's intermissions.

Aldous might have paused here too,
scoffing at unknowing the unknown;
but knowing whose hands would manage
the next impregnated motherload of postwar hope,
as they always know when to seize command.

My mother never danced the minuet,
but taught me the jitterbug in a world of our own.
The frenzy of rhythmic swirls, twirls, dips, and spins
enshrouded her innocence and naivety's
trust that life would be better for me
 in the wake of what came to be
just another war to end all wars.

Nudged as I am, I nudge forward too, lightly
pressing against the backs of youngsters
scoffing at unknowing the unknown;
but knowing whose hands would manage them
as they always know when to coat the wheels
of caissons with the song that rolls along.