And Then The Scene Shifts

And Then The Scene Shifts

And then the scene shifts to her desk, the photograph of him
One firm-knuckled grasp wrapping a rusty bicycle handlebar
His coy small-mouthed dimples hyphen the end of one sentence
And the beginning of another

The bicycle is frozen in advance
Pedals stationary and lasting
Knees angled outward, book-marking movement
With perpetual unwavering balance, he is leaning back listless

His other hand and arm upraised and flared
Palm pitched leeward and gaining breeze
Skyrockets towards the frame
That ensconces with thick beech wood and blanched cardboard matte
As if he could grab it and pull himself out

This photograph upon her desk is one of many where he is captured
This photograph is one of many where he is a second from peace
This photograph is one of many that cuts her like steel

A dog barks, a cat mewls, she awakens still wavering
Before his photograph upon her desk
She muffles before turning it down, and with a sigh

Paperclips herself over her bed, toe-tips touching the floor
She reaches for a stack of disheveled glossies
Music soft and gently redeeming, blue jazz, blankets her background
And envelops her as familiar mistrusting arms.

There is a place called discipline where marks are given for giving up
They are not medals or ribbons, or embossed certificates
They are not proclamations, dedications, or trite bequeaths
They simply are

And then the scene shifts to his desk, the photograph of her…

© Eric Williamson

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