Listening to an Old Friend

Guest Blogger • Aug 24, 2008

Last night autumn
Blew into me
The scent of late roses,
Rotting flora,
Wet-asphalt first-rain,
And the dead flesh of summer sloth.

Like the candles that burn
The inside pulp
Of tradition and
Conger Haunted images
In full moon spectacle.

This morning I awoke
To the voice of an old friend
Laughing On the porch.

Her crisp laughter,
Carrying over into damp soil,
Whispering to blown leaves
And scattering like squirrels.

This morning I saw you
In the Anti-war protest
And felt I should stop
And join you.

I turned that corner
To avoid a funeral procession;
The Hearst passed
In a parade
Of new fallen leaves that
Pirouetted in figures
Around its bald tires
I slowed to catch the moment
And saw you standing there,
Picket sign in hand.

But an old friend had been on my porch This morning
Laughing about the tediousness
Of death
And dying
I had to return home alone,

And listen
To my old friend

*Image gratefully borrowed from ToobyDoo photostream at flickr.com/creativecommons

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