In the Next Room

Exhausted, sleepless,
make a game, single out
sounds, shadowed whispers
through the house, grinding
whirr of analog clock, water in
the toilet tank, contraction
of rafters in the attic.

Then I hear him, next room,
hear his heavy breathing.
My lungs swell, diaphragm stops,
eyes close to shut out the light.
I listen to him, slowly dying,
old body giving out, the rasp
of air in a struggle of in & out.

Like sand poured through a box
of broken glass & poured back
again, a rough rhythm.
Silence. I cannot hear him. Wait.
I cannot hear him. Until, on the
tail of a sharp exhalation, he sends
a sigh through walls. He dreams.

The Red Vespa

For Cindy Cooper from Assisi, with apologies to W.C. Williams

So much hinges
upon
a red Vespa
scooter
burnished with sun,
bright
beside the pink
stone wall.

Eugene Stevenson, son of immigrants, father of expatriates, lives in the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina. He is author of The Population of Dreams (Finishing Line Press, 2022). His poems have appeared in Atlanta Review, Delta Poetry Review, The Hudson Review, San Antonio Review, San Pedro River Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, and Washington Square Review, among others, & were nominated in 2021 & 2022 for the Pushcart Prize. More at eugenestevenson.com