THE TRAVELER
(A STORY POEM)
-
Carl
Scharwath (USA)
The old man
sat in his threadbare armchair, the only piece of furniture in his cramped
apartment that still held its shape. The walls, yellowed with age, peeled at
the corners, and the air smelled faintly of dust and forgotten meals. His
television, a bulky relic from the '80s, flickered with static, its colors
bleeding into a gray haze. It hadn’t worked properly in years, but Henry didn’t
mind. The real show was outside his window as he began his travels of the mind:
Sunset spills across the alley like champagne
over a city he will never walk.
Paris ignites beneath him,
a jeweled promise winking from thirty thousand feet.
His spotted hand follows the curve of the invisible
horizon,
tracing rivers that were never his,
mountains that never asked his name.
The engines in his chest slow to a tender idle.
He smiles, soft as boarding music,
and speaks to no one and everyone:
“Next stop—everywhere.”
****