What To Do With Intangibles
by Michael Keshigian

Early morning, dew drops tease
the outstretched branches of birch
with help from the wind.
It is a chilled summer morn,
but sunlight's peek
warms the lounge on the porch
where he reads poems.
His fingers, thick and calloused,
flip pages enthusiastically.
Reflecting, he notices
the shape of his nails,
much like his father's,
no moons rising.
And like his father had done,
it's time to contemplate departure.
One day, the house unkempt, will dispense
the damp aroma of mildew,
the book will lie closed
upon the arm of the lounge.
One day, a relative will appear
and acknowledge
that the home is empty,
no warmth, no breath, no poetry,
an indentation upon the cushion
next to the book.
The change will go unnoticed
by the rain, wind, hovering pines, and
those many crows meandering
for morsels upon the mulched landscape.
He returns to reading,
the words delight him.
What would become of these joys,
he wonders.
Someone should take them.


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