there was no one at the boarding house

waiting for him
when he came in

from mapping the terrain
he meant to mention

that he had been painting himself 

into mountains 

                with pigment ground

                from headstones 

                and fingers dipped in rain
he stood half in the door

with eyes seemingly 

cleared by isinglass
even before he turned them

to capture the

                  melon dusk

he had just the right phrase

to describe the color but

there was

no one

around the fire

to make a fuss
he waved his manuscript in the air

looking for an honest review to hire

fifty four chapters 

breaking down a method he derived 

for cleansing himself of grief
no one was there to deny its depth

so he considered it a success 

put it on a bookshelf

and went back out

to see what the clouds believed 
(c) 2017 Fred Whitehead