Sketch of a Seated Man

A poem written in a cold garage.

Man sits in his garage, the air damp with cold

A streak of gray scars his temples
His distended belly births no thoughts

Dogs bark and play beyond the walls

Obstructed by feral brush, a door opener
Besieged in crusts of battery acid

The boxes, stacked, sit silently

Among pens—full clips of ink—
Covered in untouched sheets of dust

Albums of last Spring surround him inside

Yet bring the frost tapping at the pane;
Clouded breath dulls his sight

Sit man, sit—

Keep the hand, pressed and waiting,
Against the fading temple door

***

Cover Photo: AI generated with NightCafe