susurrus
that’s the rub, i hear nothing of you inside this cacophony head. a coward would ask where have you gone but a valiant knight would fall upon his sword. there you go eviscerating my heart before it tastes blade. somewhere in town the 6:30 train gallops without its mount but that was nineteen minutes ago. i’d have paid attention had i not been stemming the blood from my chest. i stink of charred sausage from a nearby grill while licking the remnants of a healthier diet from my fingertips. luckily cheap booze cauterizes all wounds but turns the stomach inside out. you’re down my shirt and in my mind and only one washes easier than the other. my neighbors enjoy the music i play when i’m outside but not the sounds i retch. it’s easier to apologize than tell them i’m waiting upon a voice from the dead. is there anyone aboard that train missing their station, poised to celebrate the whoosh of fresh air? i’m asked if i need food while politely stumbling away, declining my neighbor’s suggestion i might need more than the vacant stare upon which i fill myself while drinking on my patio.
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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.
