Wind and jackhammer's staccato, fits
perturbing a light-filled room.
By whom,
by rose petals
shaken,
by demitasse,
gentled lace covered curtains?
No name will do.
By whom,
by side-stepping vagabonds -
thorny finger tips,
worldly silt accumulated,
tin foil crinkled underfoot?
By whom?
A pattern in and out
of olive leaves,
of dried cracked soil.
Who didn't want...
bean paste,
-------------------------dried figs,
-----------------------------------------------celery stalks,
carrots for a meal.
Who wouldn't want
bucket seats,
distance from a falling wall.
Want agitating the fey,
bedraggled, unlaced, commonplace.
An acrid fragrance, it's diminuendo
a sometime farewell.
Who wouldn't want...
no name will do,
nor seraphim squatting on a window sill.
Where are they situated, the sunporch?
by the hidden door in the garden?
Where am I now, where are my traces to be found -
among excised granite blocks,
against graffitied walls?
Who calls out?
Who states the time?
Who prompts me to remember -
there,
-----------------right over there,
-----------------------------------------as the light changed,
an almost offhanded parting,
which,
------------------which, unaccountably, I can still recall.
© Frank C. Praeger
-----
Frank C. Praeger is a retired research biologist who lives on the Keweenaw Peninsula, which juts out of the northwest corner of the Upper Peninsula
of Michigan into Lake Superior. His poetry has been published in various journals in both the USA and the UK.
Frank C. Praeger is a retired research biologist who lives on the Keweenaw Peninsula, which juts out of the northwest corner of the Upper Peninsula
of Michigan into Lake Superior. His poetry has been published in various journals in both the USA and the UK.
