Brian Barbeito

The joists were yellow and the walls were blue while and while the rain pounded upon the cedar roof the day began to recede and the alert birds waited out the window with this pensive glare and trance. The rain began lightly and he thought of her far away in a colored dress and looking at the camera. She was different enough and about travel and had a smile that was faint but there, and he thought that she was a good person even though no person is perfect. He wondered if she would remember him and all the minor and even major dramas they went through. He knew that on some level she would, and he took refuge in such a thought. He knew also, though, that he thought of her much more and longer and with a greater intensity and depth than she did him.  But that too was alright. That they had met was not enough, but it would have to be enough. It would have to do. If he could do it all again he would do it all again as they say. He had told her interior territories, and she had looked back at him with a love look when she did leave. Those things were good and well and those were the parts that he tried to remember and not any others. The joists were yellow and the walls were blue but they were far off now as the rain splashed everywhere and the native birds had gone on to something else and there was not really anyone to watch and witness the precipitation save for the trees and fences that always have the most patience because they have to perhaps, waiting and waiting and waiting through the coming hours of the night and into the following new times when the dawn brightens and births everything.

©2012 This work is the property of the author.

Posted on December 15, 2012, in Brian Barbeito, POETRY and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. 4 Comments.

  1. A beautifully coloured in piece of writing from Brian. While I did think about publishing it under the prose section, I think it stands as a prose poem.

    Read his other fine work by clicking the link and following “Older Posts”:

  2. Prose poem’s chronicles a ripe recipe for a menu of a lost world of real romanticism with a blowsy,queasy verse in a duality of longing sentiment verging on an adventure of an eccentric loving quiddity in a sensuality of seriousness.

  3. lovely prose poem. this is my next goal- I still can’t quite figure out how to write one, but this is a wonderful model.

  4. Beautiful write, and great imagery, Brian!

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