grim-faced bedside paramour came calling
pockets full of gossamer souls.
He rests behind a sere veil waiting.
A vestige lies there,
grizzled road-map hands
blue veins bursting to white surface
resting in a trough of youthful hands.
She rubs his gray fingernails
wishful heat ascending from cottony hands.
His vacant, weepy eye stares back
bursts of air whooshing from his lips
a husk clinging to a rock afloat on an ocean,
fluid-filled feet riding millennial waves like garbage-scow castoffs.
Oz watches both,
waiting as always for the flotsam and jetsam
Sy Roth is a retired school administrator from Mount Sinai, New York and has finally found the sounds of silence and the time to think whole thoughts. This has led him to find words and the ability to shape them. He has published in Visceral Uterus, Amulet, BlogNostics, Every Day Poets, Barefoot Review, Haggard and Halloo, Misfits Miscellany, Mad Swirl, Larks Fiction Magazine, Danse Macabre, and many others.