​ya dead…

let me
‘splain something
to you
the folks
sitting at your table
eating
your fruit
don’t know
your name
and
ain’t got a clue
why
you’d be upset
’bout
their feet
on
your furniture
all
they care about
is
them
but
don’t fret
i understand
heaven’s made
special arrangements
for you
to say
to
them
ya dead

perfectly preserved…

how graceful
she thought
were
her movements
and
words
in the crowd
certain
that no one
noticed
the inconsistencies
of
her flesh
and
soul
with what
she
perceived
them
to be
although
the mirror
only
in certain light
seemed
to suggest
that
some minor changes
had occurred
but
such changes
must be
viewed
as mere
adaptations
to
the world
not
the result
of
a decaying body
and
soul
she was
as
well
preserved
as
a living lie

avoidance…

words linger
beneath
breath
poised
like
alley cats
awaiting
their prey
nothing
to
say
it had been
a long
day
and
they were
passed
words
nothing
he had said
nor
she had said
had been
heard
for such
a long time
only
the occasional
sigh
broke
the silence
of
the dinner ritual
a ritual
carried out
as if
some ancient
tea ceremony
to
revive
inner peace
but
these moments
of
reflection
merely reminded
each of them
of
what
not
to say

the final etching…

each day
he entered
his studio
like
a man
pushing his way
onto
a subway car
back arched
with
determined steps
and
each day
he followed
the same routines
he arranged
papers
and
pencils
for
his
personal project
then
proceeded
to do
the commercial
etchings
that paid the bills
taking small breaks
to make
sketches
for his
real
artistic project
but
turning quickly
from
such daydreams
to
the real work at hand
by day’s end
he had erased
the sketches
never good enough
the years
soon
took their toll
on his hands
and
he retired
was
a winter’s morning
when he entered
his studio
inspired
by a night’s vision
he began to sketch
what
had escaped him
all these years
he was found
slumped over
an
unfinished drawing