Treasure Island

A. G. Bawang


Old Man’s Wake


I do not wish to see him
He who lies cold
Inside that hard and heavy pinewood
I have not known his face
There will I find no solace

So I sit like a newly hatched chick
In the driver’s seat of this borrowed car
Humoring myself
By marching my fingers
To the unexpected loudness
Of the clock’s thinnest hand

I wished to close my eyes
Instead, I found myself
Silently counting the drizzle droplets
On the misty windshield

A distant light from the highway
Briefly flashed my ghostly reflection
On the tinted wet window
Setting off an inner invasive siren
Startling me like a forgotten alarm
Sounding minutes too early

Submitted: Sunday, June 22, 2008

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