i am disbelief at the churning
both familiar and strange
of aloneness re-forming
i am the pink petals of a rose
on a bush by the fence
that would have been a gift
i am an urgent need to check mail
four times in a day
and once more after darkness has fallen
i am relief at the stream of rain
running down cheekbones
and underneath eyes
i am the breath that catches
on each occasion
the phone shouts for attention
i am the thespian craft
enacting a set script
of smiles and nods and nonchalance
i am the low register
of deep dirge sounds
accompanying mournful songs
i am the small case letter
whose mark is insignificant
on a new page
© Frank Prem, 2000
240218
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