Michael Keshigian- Three Poems

IT’S ABOUT THE DOG

We create goals or have them handed to us

in childhood when we barely understand,

being nothing more than piles of flesh

in search of direction with a need for comfort,

but we pursue nonetheless, spend hours honing skills,

then question it, become financially secure,

then question it, become moral, ethical, thrifty,

drain the swimming pool, dump the luxury sedan,

then question it.  We meet wholesome people

then abandon them to fulfill manufactured needs.

We are consistent amid our persistent inconsistency,

as fickle as weather upon any given day.

It’s no wonder that so many of us have dogs.

SKYSCRAPER

Sword through the clouds

that punctures heaven’s blue,

too high for birds to perch

upon the dizzying edge,

what are you

but a dimly lit torch

against the hazy night sky

that induces vertigo

when we dare

to touch the stars

from the clear, bubbled box

protruding on your side.

An information booth,

you highlight through daylight

the city below

from the vantage

of various compass points,

then become a darkened stage

for a lover’s caress or

a criminal’s momentary refuge.

Though many nest

within your windows,

the sun still admonishes

your girth

for obstructing its view,

inflicting daily photon lashings

to your western behind.

LOST ROADS

Nearly half a century has passed

since he visited the city

of his college days,

sauntering down streets

he no longer found familiar.

It was summer and he walked alone,

searching for landmarks once frequented,

the sub shop, jazz club, corner grocery,

all gone, swallowed by apartments

and office buildings.

The college still stands,

its façade completely redone,

making the building seem smaller,

cramped between businesses and dorms,

each sporting distinctive décor

on the narrow road

that connected them all,

inundated with parked cars

and overgrown trees

that dwarfed the constricted sidewalk.

Did Poto still teach?

Time has likely swallowed him as well.

Traffic was constant and consistently noisy

as he circled the block

a second time, hoping, by chance,

to bump into a former classmate

or recognizable friend

that might be on a similar journey,

retracing a path to the past,

someone with a set of directions

pointing the way toward nostalgia

and the roads from where he came.