Thomas Festa

The patter of rain  

on the roof this not-yet-spring

past the equinox


upstate swings, selfish.

Foot-tap invocations, brief

shows of gratitude


too early or too

late arrive febrile, ready

to grow. Things not said


interspersed with sobs

from the antique library

table and matching


desk reach rooms across

the continent scattered with

the half-packed boxes


of inheritance.

Among the fading photos

in the album I


found from the start of

the last century:  one of

the old house downtown


I never entered,

of the living room, by chance

authenticates the


antiquity and

formal essence, the

tableness of the table.


Icon for the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License

Shawangunk Review Volume XXXII Copyright © 2021 by Thomas Festa is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.

Share This Book