the Park

House of Heart

Fascinated by his shabby sweater, cheap shoes, and expensive attaché I follow him through the park. Sitting down on a park bench he opens his brief case and pulls out an apple. He motions me sit beside him and offers me the apple. I take it though I’m not hungry, I resist the urge to arrange his unkempt hair and run my fingers over his unshaven chin. His dark eyes look through mine and into a well hidden soul. He says he hasn’t worked in a while and spends most of his afternoons by the pond watching the swans. Feeling as though I am eavesdropping a secret I stand, say good bye and lie, I have to go, I am late for an appointment. He asks me to come back again. I nod with no intention of returning.

That night I wake in a sweat. I rise and stand before…

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About Jonathan Caswell

Mr. Caswell has been composing poetry at least since High School. He has been on WORD PRESS for ten years and contributes to two other blogs beside this one. This blog has a Christian emphasis but all bloggers are welcome. Mr. Caswell chooses to---with permission--re[post material of interest

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