William doesn’t talk to us anymore.
He left us in the closet when he moved out of the house.
Time tears at our gentle fabric skin.
William won’t let us go in his head.
He doesn’t understand that we were happy to be donated
To other children who need us.
To William, we are not toys,
We are real people that he let go.
We are more weight,
More stepping stones
On the trail of abandonment that he is building.
Posted in response to the challenge Forgotten.
1)
I think that when he looks at pianos,
The keys are stained and worn in
With grooves and dents,
In the shapes of his fingerprints,
ghosts of peo / ple hiding in this house / they grew up in and left / hiding under tables in clo / sets long thin men pale pe / ople dark people all hidden / separately in the same room / waiting for the seeker to finis / h counting endlessly endl
He can see kids glowing in the kitchen,
Hands sticky with sweet gossip,
Bright, beautiful little selves smudged by the window that he,
A cracked old statue has broken his hands and fingers by banging on,
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