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Eventual Forest.

I am not the lost horizon, lost highway, lost child looking
from a television screen. I am not missing, will not be found.
Neither gentleman caller nor Impressionist painter gazing
at azure waters and golden fields, I'm no father of twins
whose colic trades turns through the night, will not carry
one and then the other like a potato sack over my shoulder.

I'm not a ship's captain or rowboat owner, have never sat
within an inflatable kayak or driven a Mercedes-Benz.
I don't have a Siamese or golden retriever--am not a dog
person, cat person, cat woman. I keep no skintight leotard
in which to repel bad guys or lure stolid heroes, my purr
a poor imitation of divas with bullwhips atop grand pianos.

Too big to shove, my own piano is cracked fortress, will outlast
house and perennial garden. The used instrument a mother
acquires for lessons and one son plinks away at and falters.
I'm no magician or stage parent, look both ways when
crossing the street. Beneath sagging trees, winding vines,
an upright in the eventual forest: sallow keys, mossy strings.
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Author:Osborn, Keli
Article Type:Poem
Date:Mar 22, 2018
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