And so, then, without a dearest cause,
a yonder spotlight from the above angelic haven
came to me nearest, in such synchronicity, or so it seemed,
as I stretched my forearms to the edge of thy blistered park bench.
A whispering wind tickled my senses, nudging me towards the speckled light,
only to lift me higher, and higher; so high, so high, so close, so close,
to what one might be gentle to call a spiritual awakening. I was there,
and now I am here.
Sunday, October 26, 2014
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
Quentin examined the faucet,
four drops would hit the sink every minute;
Quentin counts. A tall, skinny boy
with pupils so deep, one could sail a boat in them.
His long brown streaks would hang like curtains across his face,
like bamboo, or seaweed dangling in the ocean currents.
Quentin sweat, but would swipe his forehead with a dish towel
before the drops could mix with the faucet’s drool.
He was an odd fella, Quentin was.
I would leave the house for hours, and days, sometimes,
and Quentin would always be counting drops.
I had to get the faucet fixed, why hadn’t I earlier.
Friday morning, briefly after lunch, the plumber came with his wrench,
I left him to quibble the rusty tubes.
Upon my return, broken glass and porcelain everywhere,
I didn’t order a painter, nor did I order a tint of red;
the plumber wasn’t a plumber,
his wrench wasn’t a tool,
but a weapon,
to kill my