Draft Work, Poetry

Cricket

The trains are running cargo.
They are far off in the distance, but
you can hear the Ferdinand
in their charging horns
riding the ambient surge of car engines
as they course down
Wadsworth, 
our little Pamplona

Mechanism reaches toward sacrament,
a ritual closure of the day,
bread of an ever-moving body,
before stripping off its robes
and climbing in the windowsill.
As bone tired as any other supplicant
tick-tocking its way through a hot suburban night.

Sweltering, shut down, save
for a
whining, oscillating fan
that hiccups
every time it draws its head
from left to right.
Its little breath
Shifts nothing.

It stares through its central eye,
Shakes its upturned, cagey head,
knowing certain facts.
The day’s sun rays are still
dissipating from the asphalt,
the brick, the summer glass.

And if there is a little sun,
they'll bake again tomorrow.

Your absence,
my not being there, the vain
assumption that we should ever meet
that anyone can ever meet
without the pull of a pin,

on the fixed, unwavering stare
is just the heat leaving me
at the end of the day.
The wave that rolls in where there is no sea
and pulls away the absent shoreline.

Published by crepuscularious

writer. layabout. dreamer who pains to make language give up its magic and secrets.