Old photos in another language,
the people look vaguely the same
Separated at birth, families cling
to umbilical cords of memory– powdered,
thought collects in luggage stored
in rooms. Is nothing is kept safe?
Hills render clouds endlessly, there's
nothing better for the weather to do.
Arbousier tree blooms spiked red candies
of fruit, free for the taking. In the city,
the cemetery is joyous with visitors.
What is not usual becomes coincidence.
Those who don't gamble appear when
there are stakes. With umbrellas. Glory
can be as deep as coats of paint on white
windows. People gather around kiosks to hear
the papers speak of a stolen plane that flew
through the legs of the Eiffel tower again.
“The Status Quotidian” was printed in Harvest Time, No. 5 of Inwood Indiana. Pick up the paperback from Prolific Press; the stories and poems published online are free to read here.
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