Thump!

old bodies...
become small at night,
shaken with solitude,
swallowed up by the womb.

hands that built fires,
gnarled, clench and unclench.
the old clay pot
filled with silent dirt.

coats hung on the hook,
boots that dont travel.
telephone lines cut,
the ink fades on the page.

thump! thump! thump!
old hearts still pound.
and the darkness is sticky
with the memory of fire!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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