A summery, ever-welcomed draught
makes itself present
in the crammed,
tiny room.
It's eleven thirty
and as I try to put down
into visible
existence
the goings-on in my head,
I notice the sliver
of a toenail
on the desk.

It sits there,
inviting but uninvited,
a splinter of dead life
that ultimately waits
for its disposal.
Upside down,
its two raised ends
like open arms
seem to beg
the rest of the living being
to which it was attached
to return.

There it lies,
next to the pencil
and the notebook
and the desk lamp.
I refrain from touching it.
I don't want to pick it up,
I want to have nothing to do
with it.
However, like a magnet,
its alluring, warping force
draws my eyes to its
deadening form.

In the silence
as I hear my wrist-watch
ticking past twelve,
I am reminded
of the incomplete,
decaying foot
that kept on walking.

© 2002 José Sevillano

AT NIGHT
josé sevillano
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