Pacing strides left a man
etching a phrase into the linoleum,
dull yellow, the world gleamed
from a single bare bulb,
resembling either an idea
or afterthought,
strung up to illuminate
this small world.
Each step accidental
he strung together a verse
he would never read,
letters laid down
as eyes were always fixed
above the cabinet door
sitting slightly askew,
paint chipped away at the corners
and the inevitable banshee screech
of tortured hinges choked by rust,
or the faucet with its loose handle
and stains of hard water
dripping to the rhythm
to which he walked,
unbeknownst to him.
Pacing turned to past time
when the energy died down,
steps forward holding neared stilled
in comparison to the mind
set at a running pace.
In each step,
meaning was lost to him,
setting down his soul with thinning rubber,
the plastic giving way
after years of playing that solemn bass,
a nightly monotonous melody.
Circles would have been better,
a truer glimpse of a cramped mind,
though the message of his walking
in waking
would have been lost to the pattern.
His line suited him better,
unfortunately he has yet to read it,
always keeping his head high,
forgetting to tuck his chin
to defend himself from those thoughts.
Breaking down around him,
his home holds but essentials
yet is still somehow cluttered.
There’s always a rustle
when the draft slips through the walls,
a constantly changing mosaic of light,
his shadow helps to paint the opposite wall,
where the only figure is the outline
of some long forgotten photograph,
an image he refuses to hold any longer.
The aire is refreshed
by a new batch of memories
floating in on the wind.
He misses the messages he’s laid out,
and his pacing fails to falter
when he’s stripped of all remembering.
If only he could sink low enough
to look down,
but experience has taught him
to hold high with every stride a must.
If he let down his guard
his defenses would be up,
the time would slow in dusty gears
and it would bring his hand
around to face the thoughts of
the circling becoming linear.
A second’s skip would detract,
all rot and decaying
what precious little was left,
though he’d soon be back to a missed step,
each foot accidentally placed
in a purposeful stride.
Unbeknownst to him,
his rhythm’s left behind a message,
flickering fluorescent reflects
the dull yellow verse
carved into the linoleum.
His pacing has stopped,
feet now carrying away
the jumbled thoughts,
walking out the door
the distraction his head held in place
allowing the buzzing bulb to continue.
Realizing,
returning,
he happens a quick glance
in the last light of the fading night,
flipping the switch he misses
his words worn to wood,
“We are all alone,
but rarely are we forgotten.”