by Michael Brett
That everyone waits for; whose photograph
Is like a breath that's held. Each item: photograph, book,
Even pencil stub, becomes a kind of relic-
Only not of a kingly saint's but of someone like ourselves.
It makes part of our lives stop, like a passing camera view
Of our house keys and our change. Last chance
Meetings are remembered in every detail. The snap
Of the catch on the garden gate closes too,
A kind of jewel box in the heart.
It never goes. He can be dead for thirty years.
To his parents, it's as if he's just popped out
For some chocolate and an evening paper.
~
Copyright © 2010 - Michael Brett
Published: 4/29/10 · Author's Page · Next Poem