In on the Secret

Quarter moon light stripes the landscape.
A deer leaps a stream, moving away
from city walls, an army bivouac.
Fragments of a folk song—
death, wings and fear,
shimmer and drift like
falling leaves, failing light.
I retrieve cell phone and
Shelby cigarette case from
the restaurant patio table.
Tiresome in the telling,
patience doesn’t free me.

Waking to dogs snarling,
the late chiming of a clock,
I pass a day, a life
waiting for the rain,
reading familiar titles
of wars and civil wars, suicides,
the suggestively insincere.
I memorize lies and diatribes,
stalking, greedy fables.
With a certain cunning,
a Montblanc Solitaire Blue,
I send a warning home.

I take bourbon and water in the morning,
light exercise of tai chi and free weights,
no breakfast but news on my phone.
Shaved and showered, I engage the day,
business smile assumed.
There is a report I monitor,
websites to check from a personal list.
I grew up learning when
you’re made to wait, it won’t happen.
Who I was another time means nothing.

R.T. Castleberry, a Pushcart Prize nominee, has work in Dissident Voice, Caveat Lector, San Pedro River Review, Glassworks Magazine, Silk Road and Gyroscope Review. Internationally, he's had poetry published in Canada, Wales, Ireland, Scotland, France, New Zealand, Portugal, the Philippines, India and Antarctica. His poetry has appeared in the anthologies: You Can Hear the Ocean: An Anthology of Classic and Current Poetry, TimeSlice, The Weight of Addition, and Level Land: Poetry For and About the I35 Corridor. Read other articles by R.T..