Watchman, Tell Us

By Michael Chitwood

Featured Image: Mountain Brook by Albert Bierstadt

The thief was none other than the wind.

The thief was the color of nickels.

The thief hummed in the downspouts, around corners.

I’ve already told you.

You should know better.

Mister Know-it-all. Mister Hands-in-your-pockets. Mister Sleep-for-the-morning-is-coming.

The thief had the cinnamon of fallen leaves on his breath.

The thief put a tear in our eyes.

We’ve been over this.

Down this road. Crossed this bridge.

You wake up one morning and the thief is already up, in his gray slacks, his hands clasped in a prayerful manner.

Now what?

The melon-musk of her passion is still on your fingers.

The thief will take even that by afternoon.

But not now. Not just yet.


Originally appeared in NOR 4

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s