I
once met a morphosis
was
singing so nobody thought they saw
a
song in out of tune and out of terror.
I
asked his hurry why he was.
He
stood in front of troubled doors,
his
satchel black with ink-sick and misprinted
NY
Times, and knocked with hoping hand.
His
allocated misery was showing.
He
closed his loud eyes to unanswer,
stood
mulling in his minimal shoes
with
minus soles, beyond the space
he occupied.
His shirt writhed out
of
the sick pants and lived apart,
while
fractal creases multiplied his forehead.
Quiet
as glass, his traipse
commenced
him into currents of the clock.
He
rivered minutes while I under all
the
subways sooted his soon coming.
When
faced we handed down each other,
noses
sniffly flaring everly.
The
wrong dawn rose.
Ben Passikoff is a retired engineer. His poems have
appeared in The Quarterly Review of Literature, Atlanta
Review, Harvard Review, Sarah Lawrence Review, Texas
Review, Literal Latte, Orbis, and a truckload of
other journals. His pursuits are poetry and survival.
Magazine