By Fabrice B. Poussin
It is just another Sunday
it appears the seat has not yet cooled
from the previous week in the great room.
The old coat walks timidly to the corner
dark, in the shades of anonymity still
finding a short respite to the inevitable instant.
There will be no dialogue but for another stranger
a few words thrown at random in a fake sentence
hoping that it will be the end of all the questions.
It is another morning
the snows have melted away into memories
what shall these hours bring of the unknown yet?
Remembering the moments before he knew this world
he remains in the comfort of a life in the making
alone, ignored, invisible so small.
Furtively he glances about the thief he might become
far away another like him dares not raise an eye
a clone of the greatest fears.
A dwarf soul attempts a gaze to the sky above
he knows after all he too might be a giant.
The little creature stumbled upon an invisible planet
soon a caring other would come weapons in hand
to erase those bluish scrapes into another past.
I stare at the gaping door and wonder
why so dry this world remains
alone in a multitude.
Dreams have come and gone their way
decades vanished in the glow of fireworks
while grooves traced a story made for oblivion.
Soon I will depart to leave those ivory sticks behind
to rot and quickly turn to dust in a storm
a desert land without the poetry of my kin.
Time gave me the years in a dimmed alcove
now I must step outside of the aching shell
lone statue beneath the ground of the pressing grave.
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review, and other publications.