Just Behind The Clock

an old man sits alone in a chair,
with a revolver and a book.
thinking about children gone,
and branches that diverged.
thinking about women lost,
in the aisles of churches, and department stores.
thinking about hours burned,
under the hot lamp of striving.
scratching his name on the cover of the book,
he closed his eyes to dream.
yet somehow couldnt get rid of the taste
of children's pajamas,
the smell of the perfume
of kitchens...
and the light in those eyes
he never noticed before,
that he was always too busy to tend...
the clock struck three as he drifted off,
and the revolver fell to the floor.
war ribbons hung on his wedding picture,
just behind the clock!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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