by Michael Plante

I’m an old man in a room
reminiscing in memories;
the cheap cracked floral wallpaper
and the smell of old people
is certainly a reality I could do without.

It is not death I wait for
it is the warm summer wind
from the land where
spirit people rise
and haunting screams from our past comes alive.
It is that I hold onto, it is that that holds my attention.

Some say I’m a crazy old man with nobody to talk to
just sitting next to the window
staring out into nothing.
If nothing is all they see, then they died years ago;
no more alive than that cheap plastic flower in a vase on a table.
That about sums up their lives.
At least something has caught my attention.

When I was a kid the reservoir was fill
and the sky was clear.
When a cloud did come along we’d make up stories;
stories about our people.
Not one of them ever had a cowboy in it.
We always imagined where the cloud was going or coming from.
When the cloud finally disappeared so did the story.

I heard a song from the south
made me think about my own home
or the way it once was.
People down there waiting on the same wind
waiting to hear the screams once again.
Maybe there’s an old man like myself
looking out the window
reminiscing in memories
watching the clouds disappear.