“MIDDAY”

I WALK AGAIN
IN MY OLD
NEIGHBORHOOD,
BURDENED
BY MEMORIES
OF ONCE BEING
A CHILD, HERE.

A PLASTIC SNOWMAN
LAYS CARROT DOWN,
DEFLATED,
INTO THE SCRUFF
OF A WET LAWN.
BESIDE HIM,
THE SKIN OF SANTA
FLAPS IN THE WIND
LIKE A DIRTY USED
CONDOM DANGLING
FROM A WINDOW UNIT
AIR CONDITIONER.

I'M NOT SURE
WHICH
BETTER DESCRIBES
EXACTLY
HOW I'M FEELING,
HERE.
NONE OF US
ARE TURNED ON.
WE ARE WAITING
TO BE, PERHAPS;
FOR SOMEONE
TO COME ALONG
AND MERCIFULLY
FLIP OUR SWITCH.

I STOP AND STARE.
THE RAIN PELTS US.
I ADMIRE THE RAIN
FILLING IN
THE DEAD DRUNK
LAWN ORNAMENTS.

THERE IS NO MAGIC
THAT WILL SAVE US
HERE.

I CONTINUE
ON MY LOOP,
ALONE,
RETURNING AGAIN
HOME,
BURDENED
BY MEMORIES
OF ONCE BEING
A CHILD, HERE.

I WRITE MY DAY
AND BEGIN TO FEEL
BETTER.
TOO OFTEN, I FORGET
THE ONLY MAGIC I HAVE
EVER KNOWN
IS RIGHT
HERE.

narrative poem written on 12-22-2014 by: on mattkane.com
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