The man is a house
Where laughter is always in
The other room.
Where the tall shadows of horses
Gallop across the lawn
And circle back around.
In the garden I can hear the TV
Through the kitchen window
And know no one is there.
It’s been a bad year for the hostas,
And the winter has driven back the lilies.
Alone, he places his hand on my shoulder,
Turns to me and says,
“I can remember now, when I was once like you,”
And for a moment, looking off with him,
I listen to the muted strings
As they are passed down
And go unanswered.
About Mike Marine:
Michael Marine is a freelance illustrator and writer living in Cleveland, Ohio. His poems have appeared in a number of Columbus based zines that no longer exist. He is currently working on a small collection of poetry and prose.
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