Portraits

Pelted into the prison of black and white
Is silence in which once was a bark.
As the river of fur flew into the past,
the house died of a drought.

And the portraits perched like fleas, on the wall;
Stench of memories, tethered to the timeless,
Unmoving assurance of life. Into those, he
would dive in, nose first, to sink into our tears.

Days and nights now lay over the carpet,
Still,
waiting,
So we let the television speak for us.