Poetry by Peter A. Witt
Bedroom closet is full of ghosts,
not the kind that lay siege with angst,
no, the kind that recall the warmth
of a spring day, when soon to be wife,
Sally, was the victim of my indiscreet kiss
as I wore my still favorite blue-green shirt.
An old skate brings memories of doing twirls
on the frozen pond until Mr. Smithers
chased us near teens off, afraid we’d
all plunge to our deaths, or worse yet,
having to rescue us.
Coin collection reminds me of Uncle Fred,
the dear old man, who used the tarnished gelt
as props to tell us endless stories about places
he’d visited, but really hadn’t, we listened anyway.
Under a shadow of dust is a painting,
the brush by numbers kind, done in third grade —
like the rest of my life, colors spilling
over the boundaries and mismatched.
Finally, a baseball caught on the day
Sandy Koufax pitched a no-hitter for the third time,
at least that’s what I told people, and would
pass onto my grandson without correcting the story.
Cleaned out the closet as I packed for the retirement home,
no room there for anything beyond a few faded pictures,
last year’s Christmas cards, my favorite reading chair,
a pile of books I’ve meant to read for years,
and a heavy blanket I’ll lay over my lap,
while I finish a painting with my unsteady hand.
Peter A. Witt is a Texas poet and a retired university Professor. He also writes family history. His poetry has been published on various sites including Verse-Virtual, Indian Periodical, Fleas on the dog, Inspired, Open Skies Quarterly, Active Muse, New Verse News and Wry Times. Read his poem “Garden Reading” from The Bluebird Word‘s January 2023 Issue.
