Wednesday, October 31, 2012


artwork: roger pfingston

by Roger Pfingston

Evening steals the grass,
still summer green.
The birds return instinctively
at seven, swoop and turn
as though invisibly webbed
before they tear and cling
in thickly pined acres
behind the house,
fluttering nervously
below a sky of cat eyes.

On the sofa we sit
silent in the perpetual trick
of our lives; one of us
is a demon.
though expected,
jolt the heart ahead a beat
while voices like wind chimes
tinkle through the walls
bargaining for treats.

We’ll keep this night
with sugar on our hands,
our hearts pumping us apart;
together we’ll answer the door
wearing our faces.

~ previously published in Something Iridescent (Barnwood Press)