the depths

October 16, 2014 § Leave a comment

every so often,
usually in the evening
when the only visitors
are a cold wind from
Canada and unwelcome
news from
the syndicates,
I will pull something from
the depths, dump it from
my neural netting
onto the carpet
and sit there

just me and this
bottom feeder
staring at one another
each trying to backtrace
a connection

he is
and irritated
at my curiosity
wanting only to
return to his lightless
trench of the forgotten

I assure him
it wouldn’t take much
a minute or two at
the bookshelves,
a late night call
from one of the kids
or the cat reminding
me of her obsession with food
and he would be gone again

and me?
I’ll probably be found
standing alone
with a book open
to a random page

mistaking my loss
for the draftiness
of just another old house
with too many
empty rooms

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead


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