a day’s dissociations..

the clock
is not wound
its hands
do not move
yet
i hear
it
ticking
under its breath
reminding me
of
time’s
invisible passage
warning me
not to tarry
too long
in these thoughts
of
yesterday
for
today
will be gone
all
too soon
and
i
will have
stood still
moving nowhere
since
the past
cannot be
revisited
nor
altered
so these thoughts
are but
random regrets
for
unfulfilled dreams
that
serve only
to
slow
my pace

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

having found a dead man…

each day
he wandered down
to the adjoining furniture store
for
coffee
and
conversation
since both
the hotel
and
the furniture store
were owned
by
the same
family
he was
a widower
living
in a cheap hotel
a rather
gregarious old fellow
the kind
authors love
to
write about
in
stories
of
how sociable folks
are
more resilient
than
the uptight assholes
that
tend
to run government
after
a day
or
two
the manager
at
the furniture store
noted
he had not appeared
for
his morning brew
two of us
new staff members
were sent
to check up on him
after
several knocks
on the door
we let ourselves in
with
the master-key
he was in bed
and
quite dead
the first dead person
we’d
ever seen
he looked calm
but
somewhat bloated
by noon
the body had been removed
and
we were instructed
to
replace
the box springs
and
mattress