Clayton Medeiros's Shared Poems

An end of day walk at the edge
Of dusk. The woods lean into
The path, trees and wind confer,
A rustling language beyond me.
The dog trots along the path,
Uninterested in the language
Of leaves, nose to the earth.
The day, a mixture of weather,
Had not chosen a season,
Confused by memory, lost
In revery at the edge of
An ever darker pond.
Shadows on the path ahead
Lengthen, creatures from
Another world struggle to
Become part of this one.

The sigh flutters across the room,
I turn, I expect to see its author,
But I see no one there now, just
A small lamp, its tasseled
Shade glows, an almost sun set,
On a diminutive wooden table.
The amber light as if it were
In the corner of a painting,
Carefully hung in a distant past,
A wall of famed impressionists
With well deserved, significant words
From an authoritative audio guide.
But, no sign of the sigh’s flutter.

I so loved wanting
Nothing could be done
In dull daily pursuits
Yesterday stacked on
Today and so on and so
On in love with wanting
Nothing could be done

Regardless of the weather,
They walked the same walk
For forty years, from the same
Small office on the second floor
Of the same building, on the
Same corner, in the same city.
Each day down the stairs to
The same street about four
Blocks to the same coffee house
That had the same coffee to go
With sugar and half and half,
A remnant of having been born
In a small town in rural Ohio.
Perhaps the sugar, the half
And half helped to explain
A stout sidewalk shadow
Against the morning sun.
His constant companion,
Tall, dark, angular in the
Inimitable black beret matched
To black shoes, black pants,
Black shirt, black jacket.
The black cane raps the walk
In exclamation over something
Said along the well worn way.
They patiently wait as they
Have for the last forty years,
As they will wait into eternity.

I cull memories today to see
How yesterday might have been,
With bits of editing, here and there.
Perhaps, opportunities for films,
Novels, poems, essays, epics,
Multimedia productions that
Put proper light on what
Happened. Meager memory
Serves in witness to hours,
In witness to what was said,
In witness to what was heard,
In witness to ways of having
Been once upon a time.