Black & White
By Eric Aguilar
I can feel the coarsely fringed edges
and smell freshly pressed ink as
I read the newspaper with no headlines.
The scenery outside my window
tells my cumbersome character
to be aware and ready for the next stop.
For the many that hold a grip,
I stand a'scaffold, free to the operation of
locomotion, in a stirring and shifting change.
Row by row, of people I don't know,
all racing the clock to chase their shadows.
The setting sun makes each vessel a
prisoner to schedule. Step after step.
The madness never ceases.
In fashion faux pas, all the women
readily wear the same woven hats.
And the men's melting mustaches show
their trends from a brisk bit of hot tea.
Lanterns wick draws up the braided
tallow, a'lit in the looming lack of night.
So it is when life was black and white.
In the big cities rain, black puddles
drown the curbs where the street and
sidewalks meet and crosswalks are
adorned with smoking manholes leading
to the underbellies of brash buildings.
The gears of the big city ever turning
to smother sanity's grip on a wit's end.
My thoughts wander to that long,
horse-drawn road where the crisp
country lay claim to acres of vivid sunsets.
Where spring water was drawn from a creek.
A place where nature provides for
every lack in life. The barefoot place
where the rope swing gave entrance
to that smooth sailing river. I can feel the cold clay between my toes. Remembering
where the fork in the road had a landmark
like the old Oak or the Weeping Willow tree, and missing that simpler time when the
seeds of my spirit were planted to ignite.
I often reminisce about the simple days,
of when life was black and white.
© Eric Aguilar
