Poem: Arcady

Arcady

Wheelchair tipped back, precariously balanced 
his Mother's hands on the light blue pads 
softly holds a motionless head
in a silent upward wide-eyed gaze
his toddler's legs hanging limply.

Alone in the middle of this littered green field
sooted trees with heads bowed low
Dorian columns sprout from Paterson soil.
A massive gray building looms far off
filling his vision with cold stone
and silently obliterates the summer sky,
his Mother watching him in silence.

Could this attic form bring him memories
of pastoral scenes,  a maiden’s pursuit
as distant from him as this dark stone
or remind him of the ancient dark force
that must have lashed out even then
at watching children in the glens of Arcady?

Glenn L. Feole, M.D.
Paterson, New Jersey

May, 1987

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