The Morning After

The morning after he left for that unknown plain,

From the window top - I see him!

Curled on his garden chair in grace, like a ball,

Bathing under morning’s ray,

Careful not to fall,

Stretching out his hind,

Back straight and strong,

Till standing tall,

Turning his ears,

Upon the sound of breakfast’s call.

But as the day whispers words of growth and green,

Flowering the garden – setting the scene,

The world dances around my shadow long enough,

For his sketch to rise,

And smoke away like puff,

Yet, as I turn to discover my own fate,

When out from under my desk,

Rests his purple cushion in state,

Impressed with yesterday’s paw,

And echo’s of licking lips…

I realize now, that I am no more.

For when I’m thrown next to his little feet,

Where no sun conquers,

And my body with the worms meet,

History pulls ready his hand,

As time locks us out,

Inside his keep,

Oh, inverted we lie,

As future Children bloom in my garden gone,

Spending their green under a cycle of sky,

Running under tree and over stone,

Only to abandon their game,

As mother orders home,

But as tea brings them a much needed rest,

Their little arms and legs flail,

As time calls to get dressed,

Tucked into the sheets,

Awaiting tomorrow’s garden game with a smile so sincere,

How little they know.

That once two best friends,

Lived here.

© 2011 Roberto Nacci All Rights Reserved