The stone bench beckoned.
So I sat.
Like so many before me.
Storm weathered just so.
Sun baked.
Able to handle the weight.
Oddly comfortable.
Allowing me to see the sky,
the bird beside me nibbling at something or other,
skipping thoughts.
Gravity pulls while yearning launches.
I want to linger.
Natural inclination to repose.
Sled
My old sled hung in Aunt Tiss’s garage like a tattered old towel.
On trips North, we’d visit it like a mummy in the Carnegie
Museum.
Untouched, dusty, deteriorating slowly into Pennsylvania
detritus.
Used only a few times, it was familiar and foreign to me at
the same time.
Not sure why it wasn’t sold or given away but kept.
Fingerprints barely visible, radiating memories.
Warmer than the snow it once plowed.
The stories still present but fading incrementally like the
red paint on the sled’s carcass.
Evaporating tears dripping.
Dare I snatch it from its eroding concrete perch,
plop it in the snow,
and slip away
in time?
Known
Would your image
crack the mirror?
Bring seven years
of misery?
Distort vision for a time
at least?
You cannot have it.
Possess it.
Own it.
Change it.
Turn it
into skim milk.
No photos
like
Crazy Horse.
Do you really exist?
In dreams,
of course.
Bionote
Nipping at the heels like a pup way too attentive. Poetry has pursed this word student all his life. The muse has a funny way of showing up when it wants to make its presence known. He can do no other but to follow. Previously published in The Louisville Review, The Thinker Review and The Birmingham Poetry Review. Publication pending with The Main Street Rag.
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