I slipped slowly
down the tunnel
to a room where all
lost things go
lit by a lamp
on my forehead.
In a corner I saw
the face of my sister
now far older
and my grandmother
still in the hospital gown,
my old Schwinn
its fender still dented
from the fence rail
when the brakes failed
or my foot slipped
from the peddle.
I reached out and touched
her lips, as the film flickered
in the background
and tasted popcorn,
and the golden thread
of the tunic, still stained
by grass and cheap wine
and a small burn hole
where the roach fell
in fading sunlight
and the headlight
of the passing police car.
Overhead a clock ticked
incessantly, marking time
and waiting patiently
for a donation.
Louis Faber’s work has appeared in The MacGuffin, Cantos, The Poet (U.K.), Alchemy Spoon (U.K), Dreich (Scotland), Prosetrics, Passager, Atlanta Review, Glimpse, Rattle, Pearl, The South Carolina Review and Worcester Review, among others, and was twice nominated for both The Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize.
