Vignettes (a poem)

A series of vignettes on this early morning…

The city lingers in my mind
a ghost in search of a metaphor
Even a bad one will do—
the identity doesn’t care what it is
as long as it exists
In the meantime
it is protected

I once drew the eight of diamonds
but when I played my hand
it disappeared
along with the rest of the deck
Fifty-two cards
in search of a game

The light dims
then goes out
A hand strikes a match
lights the candle
The new light flickers
as it guides the way

This is a prayer
that you are not really gone
that something in you lives on
that we will meet again

A stack of Polaroids
on the table
waiting to be seen
revealing secrets
sharing smiles

Glowing in the early morning dark
the evening star
unfolds slowly
barely detectable
but making its presence felt

My coffee cup
is empty
the slightly bitter taste
still on my tongue
Another one will follow

Can the poet write
something not self-referential?
If only the pen could be trusted
to function independently
of the poet’s will

(16 March 2015)