An ad for what was once a new way
to dry clean now pales in the window.
A suited man and pant-suited woman
still pose A-shaped and proud,
though block capitals shout in gray.
Her once colorful blouse,
his conservative jacket
are shades of butterscotch.
I pass that window everyday
and sometimes approach hoping
they have become ghosts at last,
their exhortations silent at last.
The owners can’t dim the summer sun
or dull plate glass collecting light like a lens.
but they could take the faded models away,
rewarding their ardor with peace.
I mean to stop and say so, but never do.
Their faces are nearly one color—
nearly as white as this page—
still I think they’re smiling,
and I catch myself wondering,
what would I want,
watching invisibility rise
to drown all that endures?
Filed under: Death, Doubt, Hope, Human Nature, Life, Longing, Metaphor, Mortality, Musings, Photography, Poetry, Summer, Thoughts, Time, Urban Life, Writing
well done D–this has something special!
I’d like to see you submit something to my challenge–posted on my site.
I’ll give it a shot, if it’s not too late. I’m generally bad at “assignments,” but the quality of what I come up is usually just a indicator of what I learn from fulfilling them. —D