Monday, May 27, 2013

Michael Keshigian- Three Poems


He stood there,
staring back at me,
odd expression upon his face,
he smiled after I did
from the other side
of a huge pane window
on the newly renovated office building,
appearing a bit more disheveled
than I remembered, more wrinkles
supporting his grimace
and receding hairline,
acknowledging me
when I nodded hello.
I use to know him well,
athletic, sculpted, artistic,
a well defined physique,
but his apparent paunch
negated any recent activity.
This window man
I thought I knew,
musician, writer, runner, dreamer,
now feasted off the stale menu
of advancing age,
aches, excuses, laziness,
failing eyesight and an appetite
for attained rights
decades seem to imply.
Yet I accepted him,
embraced him for who was,
aware that he would be the lone soul
to accompany me
toward the tunnel’s light
when all others have drawn the blinds.
“Walk with me,” I say.
He stays close.


Once the rocking subsided,
as the sweat dried
to salty trails
and tsunami breaths
quieted to placid ripples,
she whispered verse into his ear,
rhythmic, romantic incantations
she memorized
to conclude such an event,
it lulled him to sleep
and she departed
as he drifted deeply,
riding the words into a dream,
suspended for hours
until he awoke to find
her pillow pronouncing
the indentation of her head
braided with blond reminders
of heated affection
tempered now
by the empty bed
and impending sunrise.
He glanced at the phone
upon the nightstand
whose lines initiated seduction
and the enchantment bound upon him,
wanton syllables
that pierced his armor.
No longer sleepy,
he stared, anticipating its ring
and the voice
that delivered his desire of rhymes.


His home was full of collectibles,
paintings, books, crafts,
possessing various degrees
of monetary worth and desirability,
yet what he cherished most
were items of menial worth
but considerable sentimentality,
items that pulled him back in time,
a large coffee can
he painted green for his
three year old son gathering rocks,
elementary songbooks,
a dilapidated grandfather’s rocking chair,
springs so rusty
they would snap if weighted upon,
the old Doberman’s chew toy,
his father’s tools,
buildup from previous generations
he hopes his children
will have the courage to discard
as he did, devoid of thought,
with his mother-in-law’s mementos
when his wife
was lost in remembrance,
grasping old photographs
and birthday cards
she once sent with our children’s
infant signatures attached.

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