Canceled checks in the abandoned boat
seemed like beautiful irony to follow
the man’s death.
The checks and the boat were more signs of depression,
weathered, rising and sinking with current,
floating along with one oar and the captain missing.
Do not fear me, it said,
approaching a desolate shore.
Fear that which overshadowed me.
Where is the spawn of Adam
who drove you into the misty horizon?
The shore replied.
No one had seen him for days,
his family and friends impervious
to his absence.
A young child scavenging for treasures
came upon the wooden mass,
too high for her to see over its edge.
Authorities searched his apartment;
a picture, a postcard,
anything to show this man once lived.
Instead what greeted them was
a dirty mattress, cigarette butts,
and an empty medicine bottle.
The man’s disappearance caused no tears,
no sense of loss or devastation—
he was forgotten before remembered.
The world keeps turning,
the sun keeps rising,
life continues.
A Troubadour's Compass 