Caught in a curled breeze, aflutter, The Times
alights between the lines of a crosswalk.
A block away, The World, soiled in a bin,
sits between soda cans and sandwich wraps.
Once, the written world had tangible ends
and known limits to what the print could fit
and black ink to smudge our false fingertips
as if we were arrested, charged, and booked.
I wonder what is lost, now, when we can
no longer crease or crush the daily news,
set it as lining for a prized pet’s shit,
stuff it in gaps to keep the winter out.
Imagine high priests in their gold thread robes
with sacred scrolls that unroll without end,
as if God never ceased to document
his teaching, giving us no chance for rest.
Richard Stimac lives in the St. Louis, Missouri (USA) area. He has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), two poetry chapbooks, and one flash fiction chapbook. In his work, Richard explores time and memory through the landscape and humanscape of the St. Louis region. He invites you to follow his poetry Facebook page Richard Stimac poet.