Autumn Approaching

Traces

Crimson air fills the sky
with promises full of
sterile eyes
flickering like
stardust
across the pages
of some old
yellow dusted
book.

On the table in the kitchen
enamel tipped forks
argue
about when the sun will set
tapping the brittle
porcelain plates
trying to attract
attention.

Bystanders passing by
stop and stare
at the candles
flickering like eyelashes
in the window
partially open.

The moon bids goodnight
to the heavens
bowing its lapels
below the shoulders
of this day.

You have to wonder
where the hours went
as you sit
like silverware
all dressed up
deciding
who is going to do
the dishes.

Fingerprints cover
the table,
silhouettes
and reminders
of movements
and plans
gone a wry,
while the laundry
hung in the hallway
almost dry.

What was left of the
conversation
that tasted like
stale bread
mixed with
cold black coffee,
nothing but faceless
traces
and a whole lot of
dust.

Kevin Harling.