islander

this statue of a drifter, running paralyzed

you could tell he was in trouble

by the black and sepia eyelets on his marooned coffee
no doubt stirred with a vigor
typical of the living dead

the dust and deserted cobwebs suggest
it's been days, maybe weeks
since the windows opened and the phone rang

still, there's mud on the doormat - someone must have knocked at some point
but this statue of a drifter, running paralyzed
peering out through the peephole
couldn't see him
he'd been squinting, staring at the dirt tracks that run between the tiles
for so long
his vision could no longer sense
such a soft, curved, human form.

the note he left
mirrored the writing on the wall:
in thisherecell
micoroscopic mirrorines
blowmeabits.