Not strange with myself, I am at odds with this chair & the warm air rising from the pavement outside the window.
Let me sit here, figure out what I am about. Nameplate enough for identity, feet sore enough for reality.
Trace the field of cosmic dust in the wake of my creations, pieces of karma assembled with invention, inserted with a twist & hook into the matrix.
Move at steady, measured pace, look as distance grows between these fingertips & the objects, rarely shades of skin, to touch, tentatively, for some definition.
How swiftly the promise fades into once-was, leanness grows into largeness, the mind into disrepair. Let me sit here, awhile, looking for my tools.
Eugene Stevenson, son of immigrants, father of expatriates, lives in the mountains of western North Carolina USA. An Eisenhower Fellow, Pushcart Prize nominee & author of the chapbook, The Population of Dreams (Finishing Line Press 2022), his poems have appeared in The Hudson Review, In Parentheses, San Pedro River Review, Third Wednesday, Tipton Poetry Journal, & Washington Square Review among others.
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