by Frank Scarangello
She visits at 11:11
sometimes a.m. mostly p
A sudden haunting urges me
to look at a clock which must be digital.
Dropping by for just a moment
only at 11:11
the time, our private denouement
I look around and know she’s here.
I’m standing in an empty room
aware that we two are together
so long as shine the four red ones
’til one red one turns to red two.
Comes midnight I will lay in stillness
knowing I am quite alone
no urge to look now at a clock
at twelve it makes no difference
1 thought on “11:11”
A present self portrait in an absent time to make up for
in a proliferation of impressionist memory of experiences.