Ekphrasis 3: Peter
The Window
Panning her eyes over my
small white lawn and life,
my Realtor smudges,
absently feeling for
the encased vinyl lattice,
and fades to Xanadu.
She knows I left no gold
mosaic, no mahogany
breakfast table stretched to
a gaudy passive aggression.
I was never great enough
to be that small, to wish
inside a snow globe. She
knows. She turns from
the window, frames the light
perspiration on my deathbed
upstairs, then cuts to our
finished basement’s furnace
whose tossing flames never
dream of my plastic sled.
by Peter of Slow Reads
Categories: Ekphrasis
Oh, very interesting point of view – photo and poem.
Thanks, leslee. My thanks also to Lori, who made my pedestrian photo much more interesting.
I like how the image’s verticality is reflected in the structure of the poem, not to mention the Citizen Kane references! Very apt.