The Now of Then

So many days….

Dust fills heavy curtains pulled

New York Times unread

Keys of past dreams collecting dust

His pet fly caught in blacky’s web

His bed like a sinking boat

With nary a listless sail of escape

Only cigarette smoke

Floating fantasy journeys

But finally…

He did move

The shops were closed

Was it already the seventh day of rest

So many weddings and funerals finished

But above…

Barely one or two clouds left

Directions unknown

But purpose clear

Go

And so he did

Oh how glorious life became

He was being

Alive.