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Weston -
by Craig Turnwall
I stayed up late, drank all the beers,
thought about my old-
man for no particular reason.
Imagine the living room where’d he be
sitting, he’s still awake tonight too,
wondering if anyone’s
wondering if he’s tired, restless of rusting shackles.
That naked
street, outside the small town picture window, the summer air is pensive and lazy,
of memories and unhealed
wounds which don’t escape the deep gravel, or the firehouse.
Where all the engines are cold, alarms
at half mast, all is on fire inside rather than rooftops
or property, he knows his legs don’t work
anymore, there’s nowhere left to run.
Ache, on the canopy, airs twisted and silent
ghosts, glance from a sitting expression
reflection back
against the panes of glass, all the hourglass beats
poured from extinguished wishes, false dreams and patch-work
cigarette burns that no cloth can carry.
This carpet and wood, these walls and patient
stares of my old-man linger, so we both stay up
late, and his
streets are alone and mine are
meant, meant to imagine cured concrete lonesome, but I just can’t
think that hard, that hard
at all – out Weston windows.
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Craig Turnwall
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