by Joe Engel

I rub the refurbished chair

I sit on for spirit.

My cell phone sleeps.

Across the room

a woman’s story unwinds 

like witnessing a flood 

breech the foundation 

of someone else’s home.

But there is a crow

on my shoulder-

the crow I ignore.

My ear is just carrion.

Some nights

my feet take me to the chapel 

where I stand in wonder

of the heavy locked door.

I’m often this way,

pulled forward only by rope,

but my own laurels

fit my memory 

as if frames

from a hobby store.

My wit is the way I once

made someone laugh.

Then this woman’s story bathes me

on its way through the window,

sound waves fading

into the harbor below.

What the hell, I think,

I am its last witness

and as I lean in her direction, 

my crow knows 

I’m gleaning drinks

from someone else’s well

it spreads it’s shiny wings

and sets its beak on my ear

so when it caws,

I think it roars.

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