Hypothetical Departures

the kettle is not
in its proper place
grains of rice
scattered on the
path

no birds pecking
this time
the cat on the fence
is keen
but helpless

leaves in heaps
there is no wind this time
i think about
burning

the curtains are
unmoved
dusts settle
layered
there is a story
to tell

the archeologists
are not bringing their
brushes
of history

even the winds
if you taste them
are bitter

when the gate opens
this time
no hand shall open it
again

a woman sits
staring blankly to a humid
morning

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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