Gallery 1

Puddle


I didn’t mean that
To come of that.
It’s such a universal pitch.
Still, I go on, resigned, or proud.

Empty
He crawled along
A dense packed
A steam packed
Urban sidewalk,
Watching the heads bob back and forth,
As they waddled ahead of him
To a rhythm of vim continuum.

They receded, grey, 
As they passed him,
And he ate sharp breaths
That marked and marred
His slower pace.
Up ahead a disturbance was forming
To the sound of people
Crackling with rage.
Something forced a division
In their stream,
As they passed by
In hopeless fury.
Around a large puddle.

He stopped instead,
And staring into it,
Whistled in breath
At the surprise.
His spectacles focussed
And the crackling sound
Slowly stopped. 
He could see his features.

Clearly in outline,
A lumpy strawberry
Topped by a carmine beret
Covering a bank of sandy hair.
A knurled nose framed
Either side by Y’s,
Wrinkling lines that cupped  
His berry cheeks
And formed the remainder
Of his fugitive smile.
The mouth was simian,
Flat with vertical striations
Betraying an age
That looked knowingly 
Out of russet eyes
Grown large behind glass.

The cobalt sky formed a corona
Toward the edge of the puddle
And around the face
That had muddled
Through so many years.
Sharp edges of fear
Grew soft in recognition.
He paused to note each age,
Each evident mark
That belonged to each of his ages.

Quite suddenly a boot
Splashed into the puddle,
Deranging the portrait.
His face flew apart
And waves mixed his eyes
With the sky.
He was so absorbed
He gasped at the violence.
He clutched his heart
Whose rhythm pounded waves
In his ears,
And his eyes
Fluttered about
The scattered frame.

Eventually,
With a last few waves,
The image settled again.
A self conscious laugh
And he was renewed.
People kept bumping him,
But he held his ground.
A thought was forming.
More errant feet
Would splash the puddle
Deranging his face
Again and again,
But it always returned.
It held its ground.

This image
Inevitably
Connected to his feeling.
Each struggle with life,
Each personal interaction,
Like Proustian friends,
Caused minor and major
Emotional derangementTo his comfortable self.
A higher sense
Of comfort with life
Was assembled,
And he could handle
Scatterings with greater aplomb.

Restored
He straightened himself	
And edged around the puddle.
The heat seemed less,
And he felt lighter.
He went bobbing away
A little more quickly,
A red mote in a sea of grey.
Full