A poem by Mariam Salem

The grunts of a dusting clock

The frays of leather on an age-old chair

A memory drawn on a cup

The sun’s rays laid bare

He sits there

in that armchair,

and now his cigars exhale

clouds which quarrel the sun’s rays pale

His nails are trimmed, and their edges soothe

the frays the armchair has let loose

His eyes are on the clock, the cup offers him a memory

yet the exhales seem to be his only remedy

The clock stops ticking, it rests in its remains

but he does not notice, he merely inhales

The grunts have now gone, and he looks the other way

The cup is nothing but a memory, and the sun took its rays

The leather is no longer frayed, yet the smoke still remains

He does not notice, he merely inhales

And yet another day came by

but his exhales no longer quarreled the sky

His fingers are now loose

and what they hold is all he can ever choose