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


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.

4 thoughts on “Inhale

  1. 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”….

      1. 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…

      2. 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.

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