He meant to build a room. Loose lumber leans against his fence. That’s proof—this is the time. He’ll square windows, frame doors, sketch out straight lines with chalk. He’s bought new tools, shiny. They lean dry, sheltered by eaves. But his nights are lean— His time leaks away. His hands are too soft for sharp work. But he means to do it this time. Loose glasses slip down when he kneels. The lines aren’t strict. At least, that one he drew got lost. Gray concrete won’t set. All night it stays soft as gum. And nails slide, saws just won’t align. Why do ghosts need rooms? He wonders and leans on stucco, rolling a bottle of lime pop, cool, on his forehead. He hasn’t seen her—nights stay vacant. But a new room means purpose. Means the séance will work next time.
About the Poet:
Mark J. Mitchell was born in Chicago and grew up in southern California. His latest poetry collection, Starting from Tu Fu was just published by Encircle Publications. A new collection is due out in December from Cherry Grove. He is very fond of baseball, Louis Aragon, Miles Davis, Kafka and Dante. He lives in San Francisco with his wife, the activist and documentarian, Joan Juster where he makes his meager living pointing out pretty things.
Leave a Reply