Mark R Slaughter (1957)

My stare,
       like a statue's -
              not a blink,
                     wink
                            or twitch -

Deepened in the history.

I lifted generations to my chest,
But the frame jealously clamped itself
Around the black and white haze of years.


Time drifted;

Memory tears;

Wet warmth washed the venerable glass
That mothered the dulling gloss,
Kept it clean from dust of contemplations.

Duty interjected.
I bore a smile,
Telling nod -
Acknowledgment -

Then unknowingly placed the fading vision
Back down on the sideboard

Until another year
or so.



Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010










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