Wednesday, December 13, 2006


Our writer sits lost
Late one afternoon
There is a blue sky outside
Filled with cold and bitterness.
Inside an old clock ticks drunkenly.
He remembered to wind it
Right after he hung up his coat
That was hours ago
When he was filled with hope
He’s started many poems since then
And rejected all of them
Or had they rejected him?
It’s hard to tell anymore
tick TOCK TICK tock tick TOCK
He sees a lame horse
Racing down a broken hill
Its rider carrying an urgent letter
Or maybe a note
of belated thanks
For many small favors.

© Charles Oberkehr

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