Nephew

Contrived a plot so soon forgot

for naught she said

But he dreams still on the sill a

prophet lost in the clouds

too short the lines the rhymes

never fit for print but

perfect for an attic room a

tomb of sorts where

nothing but old poems and shorts

sit and wait

commiserate their common fate

until the day

at last freedom, release a verbal feast when the

nephew of twelve, delved unknowing and naïve into

the sea the ocean of literature put to rest too soon

and his hands shaking will take papers quaking to the

window where the prophet sat thinking of her

to read old poetry