Morning bones, cracked at the seams,
splice themselves into subway-tag poetry.
Ignore the crowd, they’ll trace
their own lines
back to when the post-
man knew where to go.
Still damp letters in stilettos
march and fall through city
grates that can smell soar feet.
But these feet write semaphore
that only sing
when you read backwards on
pages wind-blown forward,
east of the garden.
Words, stolen
from other people’s lives, hearth tales, fireside
songs, thirteen-year old misfit
adventures crouch and whisper their
secrets
out from
the corners, feed
a hungry pen, growling
for colors on gray paper.
Once you can no longer smell the parchment,
eyes adjust,
and life begins.
Rob's Lit-Bits 
Hi, Rob 🙂 Hope you are well! I’m off Facebook for a little bit but miss your writings (and your personality!).
I especially like the last few words of this piece…”and life begins”….
by the way…this is Melissa Novak 😉 I’m a little new to using this so I had to update my display name!
Hi Melissa. It’s funny, I was just wondering yesterday where you were. I’m on Facebook very little right now myself. I still ‘like’ people’s pix to let them know I’m around and I post bloggy stuff. Hope you’re well…
Thanks, Rob! I am. Just taking a rest… And who knows, maybe I’ll actually start writing on my blog I created a year ago 🙂 though painting’s been my thing as of late. Glad to connect with you here again though.