A small town

Wagon wheels
Breath thin tracks
On mornings tears
Flat with dew,
Like slipping water
Over mossy rocks.

Windows weeping
Smooth with dust
Eagerly speak of
Small handprints
While lazily reflecting
Shadows drifting past.

A dog barks rough
At a sleeping man
Beaten by demons
From bottled whiskey
Begging freedom
Into open mouths.

Black metal wheels
Steamed with smoke,
Roughened by heat,
Sits weary of travel
With miles long past,
Soaked with time.

Stale Air

A forgotten room
Breathed weakly
With stale air;
Layered dust
Silently sleeping
Clings thickly.

A pale flat sun
Spread tired slivers
Onto the wall
Where a photo
Of a thin man
Stares without end.

A door sits ajar,
Neither closed
Or fully open,
Starkly suggesting
The passage
Of someone.

Work Gloves

Leather thick
With worn edges
Speaking of work,
His gloves lay
Sunning themselves
Like tired snakes
Resting on palms.

Nestled in shade
Under summer leaves
Thick with green
He casually eats,
While perfume
From preparing hands
Speaks of home.

Anxious fingers
Harshly awaken
Sleeping gloves;
Their warmth
Trundles to safety
Busy hands
Until day faints.

Dr. Singer attained his doctorate in chiropractic
from Logan College of Chiropractic, St. Louis, Missouri.
Dr. Singer has served on Legislative and Practice
Management committees for the American Chiropractic
Association, lecturing at a number of chiropractic
colleges in the United States, Canada and Australia,
and has authored over 50 articles pertaining to
chiropractic management and legal guidelines for
associates. He has maintained a solo practice for
the past 30 years.

2008 Underground Voices