Then,

My loafers slap
the brutal pavement
of the parking lot
and announce,
I am here, I am here.

I pass beneath
when a western gust
shudders the pin oak,
the little feathers
flutter down
in brittle yellow rain.
The fallen click and scatter
or settle in groups.
Above,
a nest cradled
in skeletal fingers.

Now,

In the meeting room
there is no meeting
so I pull the door,
look down
upon my little car,
press my fingers to the glass,
a coolness caught in the tips
so I touch my cheek.
I breathe,
mist the glass and draw D
for David.
It quickly disappears.

Then I was there
now I am here.
Look at me go!

11/17/2006

Author's Note: Time and space, but two of the many things I do not understand.

Posted on 11/18/2006
Copyright © 2026 David Hill