Old Man Zhang White, flurried hair falls around each Wrinkle A few years of his life And lessons for all of them -
By Abigail Sire 2 years ago in Poets
One wore glasses The other didn’t One was purple green pink and yellow The other was green yellow pink and purple
1. Bleeding colors Phantoms Shapes Outline Layered in Colliding shadows And churning
Her name was Grace But she had none Her name was Hope But she had none Her name was Daisy But she was allergic
Sofa bed nap Winter’s blackness An exhaustion Even though I’ve slept... A familiar rest in a Familiar place
A true cook with fake, Red parts on her pale neck, A small smile finds her In the thriving firelight -
“After” The only one on the floor in the wake Who didn’t drink anything. Solemn face, trying to hold in laughter after
Small café at the bottom level Of the historic district - A red-brick run-about. New, fat, hanging baskets
Head space burning like a pitchfork Rioting through the clashing windows Large, gray billowing smoke - Rotting hay with the flames and hot-hooved horses
He had many friends and many things - Donkey named Lula, a bull named Maretzi, A couple of sheep, cats followed him everywhere -
Small white spotted Dog follows them Everywhere. Rutting its wet nose Into the new, unfamiliar
To a boat Made out of books - Someone told me once - That books are like ships Out to sea - Waiting for someone to hop on -