At times it is like watching a face you have just met, <br />trying to decide who it reminds you of— <br />no one, surely, whom you ever hated or loved, <br />but yes, somebody, somebody. You watch the face <br /> <br />as it turns and nods, showing you, at certain angles, <br />a curve of the lips or a lift of the eyebrow <br />that is exactly right, and still the lost face <br />eludes you. Now this face is talking, and you hear <br /> <br />a sound in the voice, the accent on certain words— <br />yes! a phrase . . . you barely recall sitting outside, <br />by a pool or a campfire, remarking <br />a peculiar, recurring expression. Two syllables, <br /> <br />wasn't it? Doorknob? Bathroom? Shawcross? What the hell <br />kind of word is shawcross? A name; not the right one. <br />A couple of syllables that could possibly be <br />a little like something you may once have heard. <br /> <br />So the talk drifts, and you drift, sneaking glances, <br />pounding your brain. Days later a face occurs to you, <br />and yes, there is a resemblance. That odd word, though, <br />or phrase, is gone. It must have been somebody else. <br /> <br />Yes, it's like that, at times; something is, maybe; <br />and there are days when you can almost say what it is.<br /><br />Henry Splawn Taylor<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-way-it-sometimes-is/
