timetables

the artist’s scarf,
on a timetable sloping
down to a punch-hole floor
shimmying
under the door;
i wonder who left that open?

clacking feet, tipping toes
wondering,
can we still call this Home?
threaded rags
drag through mud
​ the downy coat
falls with ease
from unwreathed shoulders
to trypophobic concrete.

and passersby on the road
curating my fingers,
my nail beds; that half-moon
on the striated keratin,
laying rusty bricks
for the stronghold –
might the artist’s scarf
be the tied-up bedsheet
from the tower’s window?

again those timid threads
cutting out spaces
pasting new faces
here, i put forth this letter;
it’s the one holding true
to its old punctuation:

the past is the prettiest view
and it’s the same destination –
my fossilized thoughts, preserved
in amber — by Your curious eyes.
i only had them once.

You display them on a shelf.

i’ll loop it up again
this moth-ball friend
praying it will serve
as a vandal’s mask
if the passersby decide

She ought not ever write.

This poem has been reformatted for Medium’s restrictions - Read it unedited here: timetables.

A poem about “being” a poet isn’t the most original topic, but writers are inherently self-centered, so it really can’t be helped!

RachelleAshwell.com (Photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash)