The Ends of Short Stories

I’ve seen the posters on the power poles,
with pleas for missing pets to be returned,
with photographs and words that move our souls,
suggesting mourning people who have yearned
for absent love. But seldom have I learned
what happened next. Was Rex or Frodo found?
What means this soggy paper on the ground?

Or sometimes I note stapled ads that tell
of cleaning house or moving goods or hoards,
with tear-off fringe of phone or URL,
affixed to tarry poles and message boards,
that show an enterprise this town affords.
But do the offers bring in work, or no?
I only get the trailer to the show.

And often there’s an urban mendicant
who frequents or establishes their place
as if it were the only spot they spent
their time, and as I pass their wonted space
I recognize their posture and their face.
But after weeks or more, they disappear,
and where or how they are is never clear.

(Rhyme Royal)

This entry was posted in Neighborhood, Philosophy, Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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