scratching at the surface
of ephemera
Alice holds a doll in tired hands. I want
to smile each time I walk past,
say hello,
but tears always well and my mouth
turns down with the pain
of perpetual forecast.
“This feels like prison,”
someone whispers, and I
don’t think it was me but
old Joe’s eyes dart straight up to mine
and hold me with watery challenge,
though neither one of us knows
who spoke.
I don’t want to walk this gauntlet
disguised as hallway or write
these words
pretending to be poetry,
but here I am
scooting by with my purple sharpie
concealed in one hand.
Hope sits in my purse
next to car keys and kleenex and
crumpled receipts,
though I’ve paid for nothing
and everyone here
will be sure to testify.
Proof.
Of life and legs
moving,
always moving,
away
away
away
to places already been
and never seen.
Away.
.
.
.
March 15th, 2016 at 9:33 am
The best poetry comes from the real places, inside or out.
March 15th, 2016 at 2:37 pm
Poignant. There is a story behind this and my imagination takes me to moments and places I’ve experienced like this. Thank you for sharing these wonderful, meaningful poems with me!
Gerry
March 15th, 2016 at 6:41 pm
This has a real sense of desperation and madness – thanks, Mosk