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Rated: E · Poetry · Death · #2229322
Winner of Writer's Cramp contest 15Aug20
While sitting on a bench
in a gallery in Paris
an old man speaking French
told a story of Polaris.

When sleeping he'd awake
in a world and city so far,
where men would give and take
beneath the bright Polaris star.

I recognized at once
the story came from an old book.
I'll be nobody's dunce,
I thought this sad old man a crook.

"I read that book in school!"
my tone intentionally hard.
"You take me for a fool?"
I said with skeptical regard.

Just then the old man slumped,
I felt no beating of his heart.
Upon his chest, I pumped
but couldn't get his heart to start.

Some sign of life, I sought
in the quiet of the moment.
My efforts come to naught,
and I prayed for my atonement.

He lay prone on his bench
in a gallery in Paris.
I said to him in French,
"Go to your new home, Polaris."

Tonight I cast my gaze
to the silvery northern star,
feel its twinkled phrase
illuminate me from afar.

32 Lines

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