(An International Journal of Poetry)
ISSN 2249 –2178
Volume-3 June -2013 Number-1
by Richard Fein
I awake to an almost pitch black bedroom.
The shades are pulled lower than the sill
and are wider than the window frame.
Not even one photon penetrates
that opaque shield against the outside world.
Ravi Shankar's sitar plays on the stereo
and a faint red 3:30 is barely visible on the digital clock.
But a.m. or p.m. is a mystery.
Sometime ago I slipped into a dream,
was it a minute? an hour? an entire day ago?
It's a mystery I don't care to solve.
Yet I could throw the blanket aside
hike to the window and draw open the shade.
But sunlight would further blind my already blinded eyes.
And night would ease my eyes into an even greater dark.
No, I must remain a Rip Van Winkle or perhaps an Ichabod Crane
to keep pumpkin headed headless horsemen from haunting me.
So let Shankar's sitar-stroking fingers
lullaby me back into a gentle coma
in my private sleepy hollow.
ELEGY FOR A DEVOUT BOOKKEEPER
by Richard Fein
He believed that a song auditioned a singer,
landscapes composed themselves on an artist's easel,
and money searched for those destined to have it.
The passive voice spoke for him,
and all his transactions were mandated
by a heavenly conglomerate of franchises,
of which he was assigned a life tenancy to just one.
All his final entries of debits and credits
were scrutinized according to this plan,
a plan that reduced all franchisees
to the sum of averages and the average of sums,
the metaphysical balance sheet of some supreme auditor.
Some ledgers were filled only with black ink and others only with red,
and no soul who kept two sets of books could escape the divine accounting
for embezzlement or freely chucking his delegated franchise
and daring to become an independent entrepreneur.