to catch a faint odor of violet sachet

February 13, 2014 § Leave a comment

he would push his reading glasses
up on his forehead
and lecture from his leather chair,
scoffing at those
who believed
time travel possible

stabbing at passages in
thick dusty books
with crooked finger,
science spilling over his
smokey teeth
he hammered together a chain
of theoretical skepticism
guaranteed to shackle
anyone who dared to dream

nothing, it seemed
could shake
his house of logic

but, I’ve seen him disappear,
watched as youth flowed
into the backs of his hands
and youth straighten his spine
he would no doubt argue that
it was only triggered memory

fleeting episodes of
melancholic repose

except
I’ve witnessed his leaving –
sometimes when an old melody
found it’s way to him
as he gathered up
journals for the day

or as he bent to
ruffle the ears of
a dog in the Quad

I’ve seen his eyes
grow clearer,
lines smooth over
if a young lady
happened close
in a crowded market

then he would be gone again

there were times when
all that was needed
would be for him
to catch a faint odor
of violet sachet
and I would once more
be left standing
beside his
empty vessel,
awaiting his return

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead

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