HOMELESS IN NYC
He crossed
42nd to get to Fifth
towards
mid-town
and just
paces in front of him
an old lady
pushed a shopping cart
full of
identity.
Bags of cans
dangled
from each
elbow
and clanged
as she waddled,
dressed in
clothes
worse than a
country scarecrow
though her
straw gray hair
hung longer,
tied in a
tail with brown hosiery
to match her
stoic, weathered face
and it pained
his heart
when suddenly
she squatted
in a deep
knee bend,
like she was
picking
something off
the sidewalk,
and there she
froze
as he quickly
approached
to help,
unaware of
the problem
till a puddle
formed
and its river
flowed around his shoes
down the curb
and in the
privacy of her mind,
she
transformed
his sympathy
to confused
helplessness.
THE PROJECT
He felt as if
he were born
to the
sawdust and nails
of writing,
working daily
in hours of
solitude
to construct
an architecture
which at
times
seemed like a
pointless task,
devoid of
shelter for any dweller,
a paper house
easily
toppled in a stray breeze.
On many
afternoons
he abandoned
the work,
meandered
outdoors
to view the
project from afar,
somewhat
defeated yet relieved
once he
soaked his head
in the light
of the sun
which
cleansed the metaphors
from his brain,
allowing a
bit of respite
while the
half house
toppled in a
sigh of wind.
He could hear
the creaks
of settling
rubble.
Fallen walls,
once
separated by nouns and verbs,
were now
splintered by light
in puffs of
dust,
carried off
with a gust,
floating until
an alternative blueprint
penciled in
his head,
a new rhythm
of nails
that bonded
another design,
stirring his
desire
to return to
his desk.
FISH
COVE
Beneath the dock
from which he casts,
the water is shallow and clear,
the sodden earth
that bears the weight of liquid
is speckled with shoots
that will eventually surface
into a stage upon which
the basso bull frog
will perform his aria.
Occasionally, a cloud of dirt
smokes the clarity
of the transparent lake
and his searching
reveals the tail fin
of a scampering bass
near the shore to spawn.
He sits and watches
amid the Spring warmth
and delicate breezes
which incite the lake
to gently slap the dock.
He no longer dangles the bait
to tease the unsuspecting,
no longer allows temptation to linger,
that same lure
which spurred him to seek
refuge and the simple poem
this silent swimmer
strokes with her fin.
To read her verse
within the enclosure of this cove
is the remedy by which
he turns from the commotion
in his own life,
a commotion he has no desire
to impart.
Michael Keshigian’s poetry collection, Eagle’s Perch, was recently released by Bellowing Ark Press. Other published books: Wildflowers, Jazz Face, Warm Summer Memories, Silent Poems, Seeking Solace, Dwindling Knight, Translucent View.
Recently published in Red River Review, Illya’s Honey, California
Quarterly, Boston Literary Magazine, and Foundling Review, he is a 3-
time Pushcart Prize and 2-time Best Of The Net nominee.
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