Page 20 - Contrast1979v22n2

in the Urn are pebbles The Man at the Door
that i dream of removing
from the Urn The man at the door
when no one is looking. wore a black armband
i'd bury my hands and an expression
deep within a memory of professional sadness,
that's waited for my touch
for a thousand years. doffed his hat
sieving through my fingers delicately and proffered
the pebbles roll and shiver a hand clammy
thrilling to the tickling of with sinceri ty ,
their smooth surfaces. pale as
i'd take handfuls a corpse's smile.
and scatter them over the world
sending a piece of myself Rain spattered
with each. into the porch,
but who, i thought, would look after imposed
the Urn? exclamation marks
upon the white walls
Philip Wexler of a dark and silent
winter afternoon.
18
The man at the door
swore under his breath,
coughed
softly, twice,
and smiled unexpectedly.

The clock in the hall
chimed the hour,
solemnly.
Sudden laughter
split the air,
splintered grief,

like a bullet
hitting ice.

Michael Daugherty