His ties hang in his closet
stalactites made drip by drip
of dressing, driving, thriving
in the rooms where he made his mark.

Casting with penlights in the dark
opening his mouth
to open their minds.
Dreaming drip by drip
some residue would pass
into their futures.

Now in the eye of his mind
he finds clear plastic boxes
filled with books and files.
Titles of his miles
already dust
being swept away by the custodians
of the next generation.

He wanders in the haze
of his afterward days
bumping into tables
losing his balance
melting into softness
of easy chairs
in the downstairs
of his next walkabout.

Through the marsh of his anger
he searches for that one thing
of import to talk about
a poem, a pear,
a berry for the ear
of someone
who hears
and speaks
the years

of his language.

09/14/2011

Posted on 09/14/2011
Copyright © 2026 Glenn Currier