Melancholy Street
       

My schoolhouse, all empty; my brothers become echo,
        fading on the wind: it's church hour and I
unfurl my shadow down my street. Country of one,
I lose my shoes because...who cares? Shortcutting

through yellow roses behind their new fence, wet paint's
competing scent making of the very air a barrier. Shh.

If you hear a clamor, it's me, only me, my offering
        of noise, quills in the skin of your
prayer. Stockings on the line that tease
the breeze like a flag is my flag to tear down

as I go. No other stirring, not even by birds, unless
it's my desire. And you in your pew sleep, snug
in your hymns, I have watched your greetings, passing
smiles, gates held open, a tipping of your hats, even laughter
ringing like the bell above the shop door: ding another moment, welcome
moment, good day, sir, have another on the house,
what's the news what's happening? That is not my city,

not my street. But this—nothing crossing
the avenue but blown dust, hot sun the only

lonely punctuation—this is the quiet my heart's
        come to know, where each entry
means behind me a door swings gently to. This hour,
whatever I want: sip of bourbon

from Papa's glass decanter, my sister's sash
bullet-holed with pearls: mine,

as I exhume, with care, the body
        of each minute. I was good once, polished
the silver to gleaming, helped batten the windows before
the big storm. But sky touches ground, takes what it wants

no matter. Middle of the road, under the red light,
I ungentle myself. I unbelieve. The trailer that ferried Uncle's horses

over long roads to here, waits emptied, a gift
        of dung-tinged shade, escape from all
banter, all order, all watch-out-for....what? The sharp edge dissecting
this moment from the last? Or the psalm of dead heat

around the corner where no one ventures but me, alone
as I've wished to be?

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Copyright © 2020 Rhett Iseman Trull All rights reserved
from Sugar House Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission