There’s a nail on the wall
-tilted and pocked
above some half-chalked sketch of a man
paying no mind to the chrysanthemums.

He, who makes no fuss about the lights being on or off,
stills in the room that studies his window,
and welcomes us with the same worn-out expression we oblige.

Out of formality or sincerity is the question.

Steepled, charcoal fingers-
suspended in a pocket of time he carries,
while I cope with my crumbling change.

Let us pay to consider the things we wish to ignore
and like dust, mark the floor with our parchment petals.

– Amy Struthers

(Image by Christian Fregnan)


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