Friday, September 28, 2012

A Poem by Jeffrey Park

From his place on the kitchen wall
he told me stories through the long
evenings, tales of his adventurous
youth in a faraway land.
Sometimes they made both of us laugh,
but occasionally they brought
a little hitch to his voice and then he
sounded old and tired.
Sitting there in the kitchen last night
I thought of my old friend, but his place
by the cupboard is bare now
even when the mosquitoes are there.
Still, if I close my eyes, sit very quiet
I can almost feel a breeze on my cheek,
can almost hear a soft buzzing
from the far-off kitchens
and garbage cans of Madrid.
Baltimore native Jeffrey Park currently lives in Munich, Germany, where he works at a private secondary school. His latest poems have appeared in Requiem, Deep Tissue, Danse Macabre, Crack the Spine, Right Hand Pointing and elsewhere. More information about the poet and links to all of his published work can be found at

1 comment:

  1. That is such a detailed scene, I feel like you are whispering it in my ear. Wonderful words!