sitting idly a moment
tearing her gaze away
meaningless numbers on the screen
looking out the window
she’d almost forgotten the world outside
frosty fall morning
visible breaths on passers by
children at play nearby
there a girl was a whirling dervish
a boy playing with his shadow
another boy walking awkwardly
like Chaplin’s Tramp
viewing the playground
she looked for her counterpart
not in the foot races
the jump rope rhymes annoyed her
the swings were always taken
there- under the tree
a girl that she could have been
sitting hunched over a book
a smile spread across her face
couldn’t wait
now the truth is
she couldn’t wait
not one more day
she didn’t care much for truth
funnily enough
just the lovely lyrical sound
of his voice
in harmony
with his hands
strumming through her
the notes crescendoing
like a landslide within her
heart beating, breath catching
hoping to reach the bridge
before crashing
complete
spent
finding truth in abandon
hoping he’d begin again
loosening up
finally done, can open my eyes
not afraid to look in the mirror
I’m a ghost now, just a reminder
a remnant of what I once was
minutes somehow turned into decades
yet moss and dust covered me
like I was buried
and maybe I was
the shaking will leave me clean
spasms of the blessed and crazy
loosen the rusty joints
scattering cobwebs
with bleary yet clear eyes
I’m ushered to a new dawn
where the sun blazes red
and the ghost again takes form
the scholar
his pockets dusty with chalk
he strode through stone halls
nobody noticing
a tall thin man with glasses with a notebook
remembering the last instructions
the final words
he entered the library
dappled with musty sunlight
remembering the sequence
found the right shelf
tucking the book under his arm
he sought solace in the alcove
reading just enough
he smiled while making notes
patting the book like an old friend
knowing his adventure was about to begin
writing interrupted
life interrupts the pen
glorious, maddening
how to take the sensations
put them into words
when there were no words
for the best parts
merely grunts and groans
then eyes wide
and quiet
back to the pen
are there rhymes
for such times
The Word Rummager 