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Poem

Dust rises thick with grim, sweat drips from rims
of drug-store eyes he wears to spy. 
A parting of the slats, which dangle by twin hooks
This Moses at the sea
will look, and count, to see who's home, who's come, who's gone

Behind a brick façade, what makes one hide
in a beehive's nest of shopworn lives?
Where sorrow turns to peevish glue
in a Hitchcock room that feeds his fear?
Where wind says,  "Come outside"!

Should he pull the string, raise the blind
maimed of grime and years?  Then what? Then what?
Slacken the cord to scan the scene? 
What if the wind asks,  "Come outside" ?

They  come and go, come and go
Who knows when or why they go 
Where do they go, where do they go, where do they go go go

His  breath escapes, from thin lips, pursed,
against the glass. as if rehearsed
His youth entombed by flocks of loss…
Thoughts tossed, will rise, then bounce and drift,
within the  rift of fear and dread
Webbed with soot, popcorn, and tunes of
long-lost schemes, long lost dreams

He watches those who never cross
an empty hallway, disturb his peace with knocks, 
or bells, or locks or smiles
Who never cross discord's threshold, 
hold a dish, lend a hand or take the chance to know such cold   

Wind whips the trees and claims his mind
and yells again to come outside
Sun's shaded by those leafless chances, slats that sever
all the dreams of ever after…
          ……and the wind screams stay inside


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For the contest: "Poe In Plath Style"
Sponsored By July Morning
2/11/18

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