The Toothbrush

Paul entered with three words,
“Zach is dead.”

Returning to his junior year of college—
in a collision of all that mattered.

His vacant room became a closet
of future-minded memories.

We would gather his effects
from last year’s storage.

A drawer opened and spilled
contents on the dusty floor.

I held in my hand,
his toothbrush.

The Echo Of Impatience

Rolling around
Each word
Unbound
Then striking
Like lightening
A flash
Then sound
Of waters arising
As tears appear
There is no calm
In the claw
Of the qualm
And the quotidian
Quest
Of daily rest
Is lost—is lost
Impatience bequest
Amidst the din
Fear sets in
The child hides
As mother chides—

In later years
Her echo appears
To haunt
To haunt
To hunt