Ah, I know this man whose arms
Always ache as if empty,
And when so,
Cause his eyes
To stare far into
The bottom of a glass.
Emptied.
He looks at all his memories.
As they stab at him,
Like the warriors
Of Gulliver’s travails.
And the ropes
Seem rather strong.
For the moment.
“Sometimes.
Many times.”
Says he,
” I’m pretty
Sure.
I’ve written all
The words
That I
Can.
I know no more rhymes
Or stories.
Twists of irony or fate.”
As he stares at the ice
Melting
Faster,
Faster now,
In the evening heat.
I feel sad. JW
Perhaps this is a metaphor for death, Mom. Perhaps he’ll just order a refill with new glass, fresh ice, new drink. C
Your comments mean ever so much to me.
Spectacular imagery. LOVE it. ***mcb***