serotinal
the warmth flees above my head on two wings and an itinerary i’m left to question. was hope held steady-handed or burst breathlessly through the gate secure in the knowledge i’d not be boarding. stuck up my nose the stench of fresh cut grass but no one seems to grieve these corpses. oh, they’ll come back, so the blade makes it painless and easy to wait on what has been taken to fill back in. days expire quicker now, this turn of my heart more prickled than before. but i’ve long sleeves in case faith dips at night along with the common sense to realize my bourbon and booze will not run out quicker than you have. this pocket of charm i sit in, full of rubbing legs and soulful beaks, does its best to remind me it will all be just fine. and who am i to question their wisdom. so i raise my snifter first to air then to this awful nothing that’s been nesting my chest. i swear even the leaves turn their backs to my eyes now. deep within what moves me, i know a bleak winter awaits. another sip, another more. i close my lids to the jets i am not aboard and the slow rounding logic shorn things sometimes grow back greater.
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© Copyright Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.
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'From My Front Steps,' 'Scotch and Scars' and 'A Distilled Spirit' poetry collections available in paperback and ebook on Amazon.
