Between the Cracks

Outside the storefront gym this morning,
Dressed in veteran’s clothes –
He asked me to sit down and
Talk with him

Though filled with trepidation of
A man deep in the throes
Of anguished chaos there
Within the dim

He told me of sonatas
He had played with some aplomb;
The manic and the squalid
All around

Of the appulsive nature of
The flower and the bomb;
Of flagging serifs buried

Each branch of quasi-servitude
A hailaj of misfortune;
Disaster in the starlight
And the dusk

A cudgel filled with truth,
A chance to firm reclaim his mission,
Behind venetian blinds
And manners brusque

But now, he’s just some weirdo,
Some lost schlump alone and homeless:
His only perq’s, a blur
Of rain and brass —

The medals he received,
No more than dark metallic twilight,
Another parvenu
Left in the grass

And soon, the leitmotiv he saw,
A world lost in tomorrow;
A sidewalk for a home,
A parallax —

And by the sunrise, too, I saw
The ersatz life of soldiers:
Who live on asphalt, lost
Between the cracks

(The idea for this post comes from Holly, and it ties together all the words I used in the A-to-Z challenge this last month.)

Author: Sibelius Russell

Sibelius Russell (a/k/a/ Owen "Beleaguered" Servant) lives a life of whimsical servitude -- whatever that means.

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