The day has passed on. Rooms still echoing

With the sounds of laughing children and

Forks against plates as I wander from this one

To that, collecting memories along the way and

It is peaceful, the silence of these rooms

To remind me that echoes are not to be taken lightly

But to be treasured because for some, the streets are

Cold on Thanksgiving night and the echoes they hear

Might be footsteps drawing closer behind, a blade

In one hand gleaming faintly by the light of an

Indifferent moon, a desperate smile smeared

Across the wielders haggard face while

A used-up man finds his favorite alley and

Makes his lodgings in yesterdays news, body

Shaking more from what he doesn’t have than

From the cold that gnaws like the monkey on

His back, a monkey named Addiction, it capers

Through his mind in a jagged dance to match

The tracks that run up and down the users arms,

His body infected by a disease with no cure so

I give thanks to these silent echoes of the day

Gone by, the memories of the family I shared

It with, and do not take for granted the warmth

Of these now empty rooms through which I walk.

END

“Echo”