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It’s like the air created by a door when it’s closing,

when another person shuts it, that one last look.

 

A strip of light revealing keys on a table,

crayons, finger paints, the glitter on the floor.

 

It is like the air in the restaurant that surrounds you,

but you can’t see it.

 

I was talking about the children,

about what was best.

 

You kept talking about natural remedies, the benefits of thistle.

More tea, please and thank you—and I kept thinking of the day

 

when we threw rice and some of it landed on your dress and

that one grain that landed on your eyelash and more

 

against the door of your car as they drove you away,

and still more caught on the back of my shoe.

 

And when I’m walking away from you like this,

or when it’s raining,

 

changing over to sleet, freezing rain.

It’s as if the pieces thrown from that day are still falling,

 

making those small crunching sounds

when I walk over them.

Richard Walicki's work has appeared in Grey Sparrow Review, The Stone Highway Review, Heart Online and others. 





Personal experience and memory has always been the wellspring of my writing.When I write a poem based on experience, I think it's important to be a dispassionate observer. Focusing on details such as a strip of light, or keys on a table, I think a story can emerge.I believe the greatest joy as a reader comes when the poet allows them to make their own discoveries and connections.In this way, a poem can relate to the reader in a more intimate and meaningful way.

 

 





  


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