Early-morning quiet time,
I puff secret cigarettes
in a damp basement,
the webby side of the furnace
where only the cat dares to tread;
every move I make a thunderclap
from a storm coming off the bay,
every board-creak a snapped twig
under the foot of the Skull Island savage.
The children still sleep,
wild in suspended abandon;
arms flailing above their heads
in frozen unconsciousness.
They need their rest
before time takes away
summer’s gift to the child.
They are not mine,
to keep, to hold;
they are not my blood,
but blood is blood
and love is love.
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 10:33 PM UTC
Early-morning quiet time,
I puff secret cigarettes
in a damp basement,
the webby side of the furnace
where only the cat dares to tread;
every move I make a thunderclap
from a storm coming off the bay,
every board-creak a snapped twig
under the foot of the Skull Island savage.
The children still sleep,
wild in suspended abandon;
arms flailing above their heads
in frozen unconsciousness.
They need their rest
before time takes away
summer’s gift to the child.
They are not mine,
to keep, to hold;
they are not my blood,
but blood is blood
and love is love.
Published in The Front Porch Review, April, 2011
©2011 – Dan Schell
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