Two Eggs

On the last day of my arrival

It was cold out, frigid

The Bronx air made tears roll down

Wind would cusp my wishes

Snow lined the streets

Procession marched just last week

 

An empty apartment before me

Decades of nothing now gone

Everything once was so magnificent

So real, so vivid, so warm,

Like a fireplace behind the hearth

 

No one to phone,

To check the status, to bring in the new

Or to alarm about early departure

No one to slip five, no one to eat lunch

No one to wave goodbye, no one to sleep

 

Alone with no one

No father, no sister

I reach for the door one last time

I see two hard-boiled eggs in the refrigerator door

 

© 2009 David Greg Harth

09.12.31.18:13:45@130BklynNYC

Previous
Previous

Jamaica Liberation Movement (JLM)

Next
Next

Not In My Heart