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In three years I turned the lights on and found you ready on the phone. After digging for treasure with my shoes tripping in cracks of old soldiers hands. Past is the bitter-glad friend who knocks at night. Pictures in hand to prove he remembers too, I stared in stoic shock of the roads that opened up when you took your bags from my room. And you are ready again. Don't look back, but we all glanced didn't we? Left the museum for our cars then home to catch stock quotes where we write down when to come again. Night's slow garage door lifted and by some weak cornerstone or crack the building hung, its windpipe crushed, and was displayed above morning ticker tape. We mourned, tourists in life and death, thumbing through photographs we have left. Further on, curtains drawn. Weary, she sits alone in the comfort of home. Dinner was made for more, than to just stare at her fork. A shadow across her lawn, next door a light buzzes to keep away the insects. Dirty windows confess: vague humans live inside, rhythm breathing in tide to television's white fuzz.
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Oct 15, 2016 01:12
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| # ¿ Apr 29, 2024 03:42 |
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