It’s far too quiet
As time sneaks by the window
Where he has parked himself
In his tattered, imitation leather, recliner.
From there he looks upon the same street
He has looked at for at least a century
Or so it seems.

There are no longer calls for his opinions
His bartered thoughts or tired jokes
Those talents have been stuffed into closets
Like hidden murder victims.

Ice on the window, snowflakes in the wind
Geese land on his snow drift lawn
Startling a rummaging squirrel, he named “Max”
He feeds max peanuts with the shells on
Through one barely opened window
Max is his only dependable visitor.

As night quickly closes in
He grabs the TV remote
and starts his evening ritual
Parked in the same recliner
That he works to it’s sleep position

He plays ‘Flip Flop” with 24 hour news channels
Liberal, conservative, fake, real,-No big deal
It’s all repetitive “chit chat” and medical advertising
Taking up lonely space In a once vivid imagination.

When he’s had it with all the bullshit
He feels sleep drift coming on
Sometimes taking his meds, often not
Then pulling up rag tag blankets
And rearranging a stained pillow
He falls into his own alternate universe
Where perhaps he is still alive.
Forgetting he barely exists
In loneliness squared.

MARK C. NUCCIO (b.1946) is an Artist-Poet and Graduate- of St. John’s University – Fine Arts, with 3 chapbooks and one full volume published since 1968. He writes Nautical/Environmental articles for boating magazines. Mark’s poetry has been published in various venues and collections. Artwork in Smithsonian and many collections.