What to Do?
By Walter Weinschenk
What am I to do?
No note, no clue;
You had a soul
But now, I presume,
It circles the world
Or swims along the ocean floor;
Where, exactly, did you go?
I would follow you to earth’s end
But there simply is no hint of you:
You didn’t tell me where you’ve gone;
There is no punctuation mark,
No denouement, no distant light
Blinking in the bay to indicate
If you are forever lost
Or will, perhaps, be back.
There is an abscess where
There once was life,
A space that can’t be filled
And your steps upon the stairs
Cannot be reclaimed;
No funeral can explain
What I need to know:
I can’t understand
The thoughts you left
In your dresser draw
And the hopes and plans,
Neatly starched and pressed,
Hanging in a row;
I don’t dare touch them
For fear they will unravel.
.
Where is your voice?
Where are words that punctuate
The things I say and liven up a room?
Today, the only sound I hear is
The shuffling of my feet
And random words that rise out of me,
Every now and then:
Random words that make no sense.
Are you lost, are you on the road,
Are you nestled in a place of peace?
Or do you rain upon the ground
And drain into the sand?
Did you fall into a marsh
And seep into the soil?
Did you sink into the sea
Never to be seen again?
No note, no clue;
You had a soul
But now, I presume,
It circles the world
Or swims along the ocean floor;
Where, exactly, did you go?
I would follow you to earth’s end
But there simply is no hint of you:
You didn’t tell me where you’ve gone;
There is no punctuation mark,
No denouement, no distant light
Blinking in the bay to indicate
If you are forever lost
Or will, perhaps, be back.
There is an abscess where
There once was life,
A space that can’t be filled
And your steps upon the stairs
Cannot be reclaimed;
No funeral can explain
What I need to know:
I can’t understand
The thoughts you left
In your dresser draw
And the hopes and plans,
Neatly starched and pressed,
Hanging in a row;
I don’t dare touch them
For fear they will unravel.
.
Where is your voice?
Where are words that punctuate
The things I say and liven up a room?
Today, the only sound I hear is
The shuffling of my feet
And random words that rise out of me,
Every now and then:
Random words that make no sense.
Are you lost, are you on the road,
Are you nestled in a place of peace?
Or do you rain upon the ground
And drain into the sand?
Did you fall into a marsh
And seep into the soil?
Did you sink into the sea
Never to be seen again?
Walter Weinschenk is an attorney, writer and musician. Until a few years ago, he wrote short stories exclusively but now divides his time equally between poetry and prose. Walter's writing has appeared in the Carolina Quarterly, Sunspot Literary Journal, The Esthetic Apostle, The Gateway Review, A Rose For Lana, Cathexis Northwest Press, Tempered Runes Press, Button Eye Review, an anthology entitled Falling Leaves published by Day Eight and forthcoming in East by Northeast Literary Magazine, The Courtship of Winds and Iris Literary Journal. Walter lives in a suburb just outside Washington, D. C.