The Line

I try to stay
On the right side of the line
I try to know
What the right side is

It’s not always easy
Not like a centreline
On the highway
On which I drive through life

Keep to the right
Keep to the right
Keep to the right

Except to pass

The line
Is a mobile thing
A thin line
Often broken

There is no one line
There are many
Intersecting
Intertwined

Sometimes
Like spaghetti
Piled high on the plate

And sometimes
I wish there was someone
Who could paint a bold yellow line
Down the centre of everything

Right and wrong
Good and evil
Wise and foolish
Intelligence and ignorance
Beauty and ugliness
Happiness and sorrow
Love and…

Well
There are
Every day
Painters paint their lines

But I’ve learned
Never to trust their work
Until I’ve tested both sides of the line
For myself

So I stand here
Alone
On this dark highway
With a torch
And a paintbrush
Painting my own damn lines

Often painting over
And over again
And I’m still not always certain
Which side to stand on

But I’m beginning to think
It matters less where I stand
In relation to some arbitrary line
Than how I stand there

And whether I’m willing to move