 | ||
|
 |
|
| ||
| ||
|
Ashes by Michael Tartàglia, © 2001 |
|
 | ||
|
A man lounges on the streets cold His basket a mess, his bones brittle and old Skin cut, infected, shoes filled with holes Home: deserted loft, there's no ceiling, Glass flows from rags to walls. No phone; no reason to call. Chats with God scheduled every night Children adopted paid, then left outright! Is that still there! Poor old hag can't fight! Dust gathers, and in air lingers He raked the pile thinner Slipping it through his fingers. Leaving beloved open seas Finally letting go dust that pleased In a quiet, warm, homely breeze. |
 |
||||
|
back to poetry | |
main menu | |
|
||||