“Nobody”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-25)

 

Nobody, nobody, reads this page

I heard it said again, today

A manuscript shredded by circumstance

A foolhardy leap with a sideways glance

A week-old newspaper from out of town

With smudged ink in the shape of an editor’s frown

That gift makes me ill

 

Nobody wastes a moment like this

A peck on the cheek, a Judas kiss

A slip of the heel on steps to the door

A grasp lightly falling from the banister core

If there had been time to ponder this move

Perhaps someone might have decided to groove

But the clock sat still

 

Nobody knows the worth of a bard

Speaking in rhymes from a trading card

Eyes gone shut with indifference on hold

A failed attempt to warm up in the cold

Pen to the paper, as in days of yore

A pause to remember what cause, I implore

I feel a chill

 

Nobody, nobody, say it again

Living alone, bereft of my friends

The darkness at noon is a surprise, unexpected

A worry for those not theologically protected

The gray turns deeper with each second passed

A roll of the dice, ceremonially cast

With a gambler’s skill

 

Nobody lingers to make an appeal

Beyond the morrow is a silent seal

Sunset falls upon good souls and sinners

Carnival jesters and lottery winners

Each has their take on the crestfallen creep

Of a prognosticator putting disciples to sleep

An exhortation of will

 

Nobody remembers what came here, before

What occupied this space in verses of folklore

If I endeavor to question the yield

My answer will come like a swordsman’s sharp steel

An edge that splits both night and day

A demarcation between chapters in a play

A volume, filled

 

Nobody, nobody, reads this bloke

A puffery of ashes and wisps of smoke

A kick at the tail of a wandering dog

An impulsive greeting during the morning jog

Fingers spread wide, as they wave with a grin

A touch of the thumb, tucked under my chin

A flick of the quill

 

Nobody paid much attention to see

The wobble of a circle, rotating endlessly

That upset balance might have been a concern

If only there had been bridges to burn

Yet the cracked mirror cast an image with flaws

And the sled ran empty, under Santa Claus

His flight was killed

 

Nobody reads this page, I know

Like a postseason scrimmage, with a ball in the snow

The practice of art means little in contrast

To those unwashed and hungering for a suitable repast

Unjustified and extra, an option betrayed

By the promise of progress under guidelines, obeyed

A rider on the bill

 

Nobody reads this poem to the end

Therefore, these words stretch far ‘round the bend

A prancing of hooves, sat into the mud

Squishy and slick with layers of crud

More than the reader might endure for a twist

A reckless rip on an imaginary tryst

A fickle, fleeting thrill