He ran, scattering the subjunctives,
those might-haves and maybes
he bore close to his heart,
to the wind, forcing the conditionals,
and the imperfect past
only scaffolding—their sole purpose
to define his true translation.
He ran straight into his future,
simple and close, smooth yet disjointed and somehow
not uncertain. He ran, a swell of hope in his chest promising
him that someday, he’d recite
his story as a composed past,
more than perfect.
I have an intense interest in French grammar.