Quiet Savage

I roll over in the night —

Under lonely, comfortless blankets —

my heart flopping gently against my lung,

wet and heavy.

It must be a sin

to feel this vital organ as if I were

tossing it, warm and rhythmic,

from hand to hand —






The salty, dark scent of aged ink flutters up from the hidden depths of the junk drawer, the perfume of years absorbed by pale, solid pine.  To encounter this smell in my own filing cabinet on a summer morning surprises the past from slumber.  As a child, I yearned to own the smell of old ink from Grammie’s wooden kitchen desk, and Daddy’s junk drawer.

A long unused Zippo lighter, shiny steel with pink polka dots, rattles against the drawer wall, together with the dry scritch of loose pastels colors, a rattle of loose note papers, and the cold tic of black bic pens, create the sloshing broth of time steeped in forgetfulness.

* * *

I don’t know where this is going, but it’s been so long, I felt I ought to post. Is it prose poem? Poetic prose? I don’t know right now; it was a thing I experienced this summer. I’m still thinking and studying about smell. No doubt this fragment will turn up again, hopefully soonish.  I’ve missed you guys, hope everyone is well and as happily busy as I have been.