There was a story I was supposed to tell
About the candor of your fingertips,
their dampness on my skin, like vapor.
Instead, I walk outside – pigeons coo
in chorus from a hymnal of trash,
Rats run touchdown plays
heading into the season finals,
The grass is panicked, white faced, chalky,
at the approach of winter,
Trees gasp for oxygen
as their leaves dry up and drop away.
What did you open when you tampered
with the locks, thumbing the dial, listening
With your ear on my chest
tumblers falling in place one by one?
Why did flocks of birds fly from me
heading south, leaving me without their voice?
Gusts whip cold off the river, I am wordless,
a windsock gag in my mouth.
You are thief, lover, explorer.
Dr. Livingstone, I presume?
For Shay’s Word Garden & The Sunday Muse