Posted in Death

Lost

Posted on by tq1695

Imagination could have pretended it was Switzerland
snow as homogenizer
pancake makeup covers informer landscape.
Two polar hemispheres
days illuminated by the same sun
night birthmarked by different stars
postcard windows frame to scale Matterhorn.

Climbers midgeted by distance
thread slowly up toward the summit.
Two ski instructors rest between classes
chess tones essential patience
“check,” says one
a pause
“ actually it’s checkmate,” says the loser.

Rumour whispers through dusk
the helicopter shouts confirmation at sunrise
a slip and fall.
Blonde and handsome
dashing in the uniform of alpine rescue
he steps out of the helicopter
walks to the park ranger
and shakes his head.
Checkmate.

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Author:

Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.