What i chose to forget

The man sat in the cellar
under a single dim bulb
and stared at his hands,
he scanned the wooden desk
in front of him
and imagined the meandering grain
to be the stave of a musical score
written by trees,
perhaps the song of the breeze
and drafts
coming down through the boards
above him.

The Bottles on the wall
didn't hold his thoughts
any better than they did
their previous contents.
Always defeated by the cider seeking fingers
of once parched farm-hands
in a time when summer still dried corn
and the throats of those
who harvested it.

The man sat and tried to feel
for a form of rhythm that existed only
in his circulatory system,
sought a word that would mark the start
of a eulogy for the sun
Tragic, wasn't it
but no other word would come.

I stood at the top of the stone steps
and closed the door on him.
His fingers tapping away
at a typewriter
made of his own frustration,
Had a last, hopeless look
for some socks
and went out in the rain,
to wash the cobwebs
from my hair.

Adlam