He's been there awhile, silent. If not for subtle sobs I would have thought him stone; black on white marble, a band of gold on a white knuckled hand. Another lay before him, malformed by the unasked question—a what if he never asked; always holding back for the right time, the perfect moment. Guess the moment never came, or maybe he missed it, —funny how we do that, miss things, or just forget, like books we meant to read gathering dust on lonely shelves. He's there looking for answers that somehow slipped to subtle sobs, pleading for the moment. But a tombstone gives no reply.
Keith E. Sparks Jr.
Copyright © 2004, 2019
Written in 2004, Later appeared in "Facets" 2019
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