An elderly television speaks to her
in a deaf condominium.
Her garden is a cluster of cobwebs,
it rattles and spins as stiff
as the skeletons of the sun.
Her ears listen to the world
as it ascends into a fairy tale.
The dragons are back,
the good knights and the bad,
she recalls their fictitious deeds,
they ride again in her garden of bones;
those lovers that have succumbed
knit together more daylight dreams.
Outside her window
anxious gangs of newborn brawlers
via for the earths attention.
The clatter of arms
and the crush of concurrence
are hardly noticed at all.
From time to time,
F.D.R calls but his fireside chats
are a dusty furnace long unlit.
The condominium cools
inside a dark-stockinged twilight
then she, unseen and younger,
slips into another
of her timeworn party dresses.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
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