Michael Thorne

 

 

 

An Evening on the Roof in Fez

 

 

What of the two ladies

Who look down upon me?

One has no teeth,

The other no smile

But still mirth and joy

As they watch me, the juvenile.

'Why have you got no wife?

You wash in the evening

But the sun is gone,

How will you dry your clothes?'

 

Silence, no further thoughts

Other than my apparent lack of practicality.

Greet him, 'Peace!'

No further conversation,

Still they stand in observation;

'Why does he wash in the evening?

Doesn't he know the sun is weak?

Allah! His clothes are not even clean!'

 

 

 

And Suddenly Alone

 

 

Holding onto symmetry I step out the door

But she is silent and unconcerned

So soon I am alone again.

 

I had her between my fingers and palm

But in the cool air of this evening

She has slipped away.

 

A shame that it's so, when it felt right

I knew who the poets were

And I knew who had reason.

 

I knew it in the moments before

I had thought to dare

To open the street.

 

Now consumed I embark

Through the towers of faces,

Across the bridges and stations,

 

Between the eves of the circus

And in the fluttered dreams of the city,

I walk without purpose, but looking.

 

Symmetry had shown me a map

But my memory has deserted

As though unconcerned for my safety.

 

Hapless images flop through my brain,

In time I forget the design I sought

And rupture among them.

 

Now I consume and embark

Through the towers of faces,

Across the bridges and stations,

 

Between the eves of the circus

And in the fluttered dreams of the city,

I walk with purpose, but not looking.

 

 

 

Michael Thorne © 2008

The Suspect

 

 

None knew the suspect’s name,

Who lay in a state of disquiet,

Opening his arms to the world.

 

His wrapped smile

Faded his face into oblivion

From where he longed to return,

 

The shudder at his edges

Forced from his eyes a tear

Attempted hid, failed.

 

Beside his foot a cat skulked,

Keen in the warm morning light

That flooded its small halo.

 

The suspect had no words

To emancipate his feelings,

Except awkward stuttered gestures,

 

Misinformation he had no means to withhold,

Firing nuances into the world

That others failed to understand.

 

At a time when people seemed

Increasingly unconscious,

He remained starkly aware.

 

A pale imprint of Lucifer

Smiled from his skin,

To provoke but not estrange

 

And his jacket was a bulky hunk

Of schoolyard trauma.

His knuckles were white, his face

Crimson cold.

 

At a time when people

Did not care to wander,

He felt eternally alone.

 

 

 

Michael Thorne © 2008