Between the Lost and the Forgotten
Steven Pelcman
The night comes
And someone always goes with it
As he shuffles by
Dressed in only a diaper
Unsure of where the bedroom is.
His hands know the music
Of small things
As he walks, almost enchantingly,
On a pure white floor
Full of a wife’s discipline.
He travels in circles thinking
That his is a little death
The dark will not grieve over
And tightens his face
As insects do to unknown sound.
He does not belong
To the silence yet
And goes on imagining
Where a straight line
Can take him.
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And someone always goes with it
As he shuffles by
Dressed in only a diaper
Unsure of where the bedroom is.
His hands know the music
Of small things
As he walks, almost enchantingly,
On a pure white floor
Full of a wife’s discipline.
He travels in circles thinking
That his is a little death
The dark will not grieve over
And tightens his face
As insects do to unknown sound.
He does not belong
To the silence yet
And goes on imagining
Where a straight line
Can take him.