Several years ago I discovered that I could indeed write.  I would ask myself what others have asked, “Is this poetry?”  I discovered that I had a lot to say, with all those musings constantly filling my thoughts.  As I studied the writing craft, I found myself searching for new ways, usually through metaphor, to convey what I was feeling in a way that the reader would not know my intention. 

I wrote this a few years ago to express some feelings I had about a reoccurring dream.  It was so wonderful to release those anxieties and move on; and really, what I wrote is so different from my original thought, just carrying a similar theme.  I let my mother read it and she  interpreted it in a totally new way–a joy to a writer.  I hope you enjoy it and please feel free to leave comments and suggestions.

Echoes

He stepped from the express train
two stations beyond his destination.
Glancing around he decided to walk back.
He knew the way; he’d been here before.

He smiled as he noticed the old guys
stationed outside the barber shop.
With a wave, he bid them good day;
they didn’t return his greeting.

He paused outside the old theatre
where he’d hit his first double.
The marquee promised the best prices
on paint and plumbing supplies.

A rusty sign announcing Maple Drive
called out to him.
The nostalgic film ripped, its jagged end
slapping against the projector.

The Stern’s formidable house on the corner
was painted pale pink where once was white.
The formerly tailored branches flitted about
uninhibited in the wind.

He lurched back when someone hollered
from the porch,“…the fuck you looking at?”
He took off running, ignoring his bones,
reaching home in half his usual time.

His home was an empty lot, devoid of grass,
littered with trash and a burned-out car.
No tire swing, just echoes of mothers
calling their children to dinner.

© Liza Bennett

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