Saturday, August 16, 2014

Michael Keshigian- Three Poems

On a tree
by a narrow street
upon an bending bough
I perch in a dream
over people in a field
hovering about
an empty hole
obstructed by a box
with contents
of what use to be me.
Some are sobbing,
most are somber
and few hide
a reluctant obligatory glint.
All see the hyphen
between random dates
engraved upon granite,
transform my toil
to a trophy abbreviation
for living.
He could only recall her first name,
and did not remember
exactly when and how
they met, but the memory
of her presence
floated in his brain
like a recurring dream,
except she wasn’t a dream.
Daytime law intern,
nighttime model,
lecture halls,
and alluring moves
on various catwalks
in different cities,
she led a flamboyant,
exciting existence,
like a rainbow
arresting the sky
following a tumultuous storm,
and then she disappeared.
Many years passed the row
of numerical stations
until he saw a picture
in yellowed newspaper
buried in the attic
and his brain screamed
Anxious as he was,
the rainbow did not sparkle
in the setting sky that day,
nor any of the following,
behind the rails of the stop
time had long ago abandoned.
Sometimes, upon a discontented day,
I take a walk around midnight
to the corner pub,
stopping in front of the unlocked door
to view the dim light
that illuminates the bar,
a single subdued bulb,
reflecting off the mirrors behind,
light like a hobo might see
at the end of a train tunnel
from the vantage
of  an open cargo car.
Dirty aprons hang in the corner
upon a rack, smeared with
beverage and booze in lines
that resemble a treasure map,
treasures of forgetting and
a sympathetic ear.
The glass bottles sparkle
as if placed upon an altar
where, once the confessions begin,
those inflicted begin to heal.
There is a wooden stool,
now polished, still empty,
where my heart bled upon its grain
a fortnight ago
as the barkeep listened,
where after enough drinks,
I’ll mostly likely again
pour my troubles into
one of his glasses.

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