Invisible

In the den, he hunkers down, holds his breath,
makes himself invisible.

Oblivious, the parkies stand six feet away
and speak in angry tones:
a broken pane, some daffodils beheaded.

He hears them toss his name
back and forth between them
and holds his breath to make himself invisible.

It is summer. He is eight years old.

He lies beneath white sheets and tries to breathe.
He is very small: not eight years old but eighty.
The room is full of snow.

Light spills through a high window like radiance unfolding.
He hears voices rise and fall and makes himself invisible.

The voices drift.  
He hears them toss his name
back and forth between them
and tries to breathe.

What does it matter, the broken pane, those headless daffodils?
Will summer come again?

He makes himself invisible.
It is easy now
with no more breath to hold.

Richard Fleming


If you have any comments on this poem, Richard Fleming  would be pleased to hear from you.