Exist
to eke out a living;
stay alive; survive
~Dictionary.com
moving
from bed to toilet to bed
tottering
among ruins of a life once lived
attempting
to shut out persistent rays of sun
slurping
bits of Ramen to avoid starvation
sleeping
because to be awake is too much
to bear
Foreign Lands
the absence of hands clasped
remember the time we went to Rome
and ran through the rain
then fell laughing under dripping umbrellas
in the golden entrance of our hotel
eyes that don’t meet over a bottle of wine
remember the time our flight was delayed
on the way to San Francisco
and we played seven games of Uno
inside the terminal
lips pressed against unspoken words
remember the time we skipped dinner
at that fancy steak house
choosing to eat hot dogs
and feed seagulls on the beach
Belize—they say it’s a buffet paradise.
We taste disappointment.
Vagrant
Ambeer on his cheek, eyes shot through with tears
saddled with regret, aged beyond his years;
creature of the street, people pass him by,
only he will care if he lives or dies,
just another bum feathered with his fears.
Raw sounds pound his head, sharp with razored jeers;
he longs to shout, I’m not what I appear,
but crowds cannot see tramp man in disguise,
ambeer on his cheek.
He holds a cardboard sign to attract his peers,
a black muffler sits, wrapped around his ears;
Feed me, I’m hungry—that is not a lie,
once a working man, he no longer tries;
his bones jangle like anchors near the pier,
ambeer on his cheek.
Imprints
You didn’t leave
when your body decayed,
molecules contained
between the pressed lips
of a sealed lid.
There’s still so much of you
left behind.
That ring on the coaster
from morning coffee cups,
the indentation of toes
in favorite faded slippers,
the dog-eared pages
of a novel never finished,
the robe hanging
on the back of the bathroom door,
a handprint on the mirror
when steam pervades the room,
the guitar, stacks of sheet music
incomplete, still awaiting
your hand, the transfer of notes
from your soul,
the gold-tinted leaves
waving from the fence row
where you once tilted your face
toward the sun.
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About the Author
Arvilla Fee lives in Dayton, Ohio with her husband, three of her five children, and two dogs. She teaches for Clark State College, is the lead poetry editor for October Hill Magazine, and has been published in over 100 magazines. Her three poetry books, The Human Side, This is Life, and Mosaic: A Million Little Pieces are available on Amazon. Arvilla’s life advice: Never travel without snacks. Visit her website and her new magazine: https://soulpoetry7.com/
