Treasure Island

Adam Fitzgerald

(12/30/1983 / Staten Island, New York)

Locust


His stone shoes tipped askew on the curb’s hush,
The plump of poor men’s cheeks he saw bestow
A blushing crown. Their rasped voices he heard
Litter the streets with disreputable words.

And bottles break without sound of glass,
The stench of memory’s lips mouthing back
A tattered kiss, a perennial bruise;
Old ghosts compelling yet love’s stupor.

Then in the resigned yawn of a moment,
Its cordial pain unharmed by sentiment,
Solemn litanies rose from the sewer’s throng
And hallowed ears indulged a pulsing song.

The sparse table and dusty crib reminisce
No softer lullaby... His dreams grown numb,
Melody orphans him again to sleep:
Familiar bed he punctures like a drum.

Submitted: Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Edited: Tuesday, June 29, 2010

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