To be honest, after reading "Robert Haas's 'A Story About the Body' and A Brief History of Prose Poetry," I still don't think I know what prose poetry is. I'm not sure the author does either. What makes a bit of prose a poem? Who decides? The writer? The reader? The font? Anyway, here's my attempt at the NaPoWriMo prompt for the day. An old man stood alone in the church. Not physically. No, there were others in the pew with him, but with enough space between them that an onlooker could see they had not come together. And not spiritually either, for his voice and eyes were raised in a sort of rolling garbled unison of the "Our Father" with the rest of the congregation. But still, loneliness was on him.
He made an effort for his weekly date with God and man. His clean shirt was tucked in. His jacket was pressed and rolled free of lint. What was left of his hair was neatly combed and his beard was cleanly trimmed and oiled. "Let us offer each other a sign of peace," said the priest from his place at the front. A young family in front of the old man hugged and kissed. Then they turned around and each in turn shook the old man's hand, warm friendly grasps all - even that of the small child. "Peace be with you," they said before turning to face the altar once more. "Peace," was all the old man managed in return. There was more behind it, but it got caught behind the lump in his throat. The family did not see the glisten in his eyes, one tear in each that did not fall, but made his brown irises shine like tempered chocolate. It may have been gratitude. Or sadness. Or both. For this sign of peace was the only human touch the old man received these days.
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AuthorHi, my name is Ember. Yes, like the glowing bits at the bottom of the fire. Archives
May 2024
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