IF ONYL IN MY DREAMS

November snow killed the late autumn blooms,
closed streets, and shut down the 3 am bars.
Like wayside chapels to saints, trucks and cars
sat angled near crossroads, quiet as tombs.
Manhole covers and sewer grates raised plumes
of chthonic steam. City snowplows ripped scars
down center lines. The only sound that marred
such beauty was the gentle brush of brooms
the wind makes in trees. I turned fifty-seven
last month, too young for a frozen hip’s fall.
It’s not age but decrepitude I dread,
like an atheist, indifferent to heaven,
afraid of hell, seeing my linen pall
draped casket carried in an open sled.

Richard Stimac lives in the St. Louis, Missouri (USA) area. He has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), two poetry chapbooks, and one flash fiction chapbook. In his work, Richard explores time and memory through the landscape and humanscape of the St. Louis region. He invites you to follow his poetry Facebook page, “Richard Stimac poet.”