Thursday, October 4, 2007

Poet Wannabe

Ears strain to catch some sound
Eyes scanning left to right
A steady hum is all that’s heard
Of air pumped through and ‘round

A plant still potted and alive
Beside the door does it still stand
Awaiting those it used to greet
Whose feet shall never again arrive.

The air now fills with bitter scent
From one sole pot upon the brewer
Its contents black and scorched
Too much for those whom it was meant

My notebook lay upon my desk
Once listed many busy tasks
Its pages blank of any script
Or any questions one might ask

The vehicles are sparsely scattered
Upon the tarmac freshly painted
Shrink and stretch their shadows mark
Another day that hardly mattered

I hear the echoes of days long past,
Whispered sounds of those I knew
And with the plant, I mark my time
To contemplate how long I’ll last.

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