Poor Party

There is an urgency in thinking that,
to first and foremost see an absence missed
if only for the sake of certitude,
a loneliness can surely cease when met

in mutual presence. The eyes, peculiar,
pretend to hide the spark, initially
dismissed because the mouth could not protect
the heart that has already leapt in bounds;

sufficient unto courteous pleasantries
without the graces social standing asks.
The poor do not profess amenities
nor make excuses for a humble feast;

they simply are. And so the marvel moves
in clumsy second chances finding out
that first encounters are not accidents
and that the present laughter highs a five.

If there was need to fib somewhat it was
not contrary to sound precepts of good
one wills another when the truth, at bay,
can save the night and stall the day’s demise.

Goodbyes were long as if to pat the back
until at home it rests with fond recall
of bonding with the likelihood of blood
that, although not umbilical, was hot.

The topics were diverse, flooded the mind,
the punctuation only once as though,
on cue, it snaps as, every now and then,
it rises, pauses, soars again to shine.

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avatar About Abraham de la Torre

I'm married to a lovely, loving woman who blessed me with two wonderful sons. Poetry is my passion, even if it's on a mood level. Like, I'm a geyser one moment and drained the next. Each outpouring, however, is a personal testament to truth, a poem being empty were it phony. I got the genes from my Dad, who passed away, in 2003, at 77. He was my most avid audience. There are other inspiring sources but Dad was the darnedest. Instead of miss him, I fill the void with verses.

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