the gray of today in the long yawn of awakening
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each sleight is the haunt
of some evicted ghost.
grieving me a life of greater pain;
I see pieces of people passing,
drifting into the footsteps
of another's future.
I feel the rough sandpaper surface
of the concrete bridge
as I prepare to jump.
For a moment my heart slumps.
It takes the smallest of memories
to interrupt a courage.
I thought each flower finer
in a different way,
if there’s a word for that,
I cannot say.
Far more acute
than any thing precise,
far more astute
than scholarly advice.
Is there a right kind of poetry?
In a room far away
behind a desk in an office,
someone else decides.
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2024
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