“is that a smoldering ember interspersed between the kaleidoscopic mementoes?”
“no, silly, it is a moon, almost full, only missed in a lapse of a perpetuity.”
“you, you know, your eyes are too deep,
especially in the darkness of this unfamiliar room”
(a bit embarrassed)
“you always have this smile, when you’re making me confront my blunders
and I never find any words in my defence.”
(notice that clock doesn’t display the time, anymore)
“do you know what is the time now?”
“the time, now? there is no time.
it took a few thousands years
to this pebble end up on the shore,
today, underneath my foot.
I was walking along the shore of Northern Long Island.
my son was following me, collecting some broken seashells,
and throwing rocks back to oblivion
of another couple of thousands years.
they were washed to the shore,
by the musing ocean.
I was musing too, about that small pebble,
that I nonchalantly shook off my shoe.
the plastic container in my hand, was almost
filled up to the top, with the treasure,
that my son collected on the shore.
ocean didn’t care much, about us.
we were simialar to the
clams, oysters, horseshoe crabs and other dead creatures,
that my son found on the beach.
the lifeguards left at five, but people were still
I was waiting for the traffic light to change,
watching passing cars on the opposite side of the avenue.
“time is flying”, I sighed, and turned the music on.
“When the music’s over…”, the radio played.
“you’re always complaining about the time! it is barely moving for me, though”,
my oldest daughter replied.
(chewing gum and peeking into her iPhone)
“it is because you don’t appreciate it”, I said.
“see, Monday was yesterday, now it is Friday afternoon”.
(the hypocritical pinch, came afterwards in the evening, after I closed the prayer book)
a shaky kitchen table,
just another midnight trap,
was set by your evil inclination.
who will count shots, that you will pour inside?
an irritating cricket on the porch
or moon, that feasts it’s apathetic eyes
on it’s other side.
a self cannibalistic urge to gorge oneself,
is an element of thrill.
the reflection that is frolicing on the bottom of the shot.
that will dissapper, afterwards, –
two hungry claws.
a mantrap, always keeps it’s teeth
so dreadfully sharp.
a walk on the boardwalk
to find those fresh-drawn puddles,
that following the early evening thunderstorm
revealing reminiscences of what the clouds saw
it usually lasts a moment,
then this manifestation vanishes into the soil.