Loneliness Motel

by Michael Keshigian

His little hole in the Boston skyline,

one window lined with soot

facing Fenway Park.

In the room overhead,

there was a clarinet

that stalked Stravinsky’s “Three Pieces”

every evening.

During the day it was mostly quiet,

the crowd on the sidewalks

resembled the spiders in the room,

preying with thick overcoats

to catch the unsuspecting

in a web woven with smog

dimly illuminated with the little light

that penetrated the building alleys,

so dark, he could only shave

with a lamp in his face.

Every morning at 7:30 A.M.,

students clamored on the staircase,

rushing en route to classes

at the universities

and colleges around the corner,

the clarinet player would flush the toilet

then turn on the shower.

Once in a while, a bird

chirped or tweeted, like a bell chime,

so close to his door,

for a moment, he believed

he had a visitor.

by Michael Keshigian

Upon a summer’s eve when the lawn

was not yet drenched with dew

and still radiant from the day’s warmth,

when the tips of white pines

rose skyward like long fingers

to tickle the underside of stars

as the evening air vibrated

to a cricket ostinato,

he laid atop the grass,

arms and legs extended,

and marveled at the infinite distance

above him with its clustered collection

of variously illuminated rocks and stones,

wondering what will become of him

once his time in this dimension ended,

where he might find himself,

what form he might take, and in fact,

would he be aware to bear witness.

His thoughts transcended

and for an instant he became one

with the mass about him

and believed he heard

his name whispered in the harmony about,

a single concordant breath, faint and distant,

like a dried autumn leaf

brushed by a wandering snowflake

as though it belonged,

not to him or his parents

who endowed it upon him,

nor to this place on earth,

but to the vast emptiness

and unanswered question

from which we all appeared,

to which we shall all return.

by Michael Keshigian

He stood there,

staring back at me,

odd expression upon his face,

smiling after I did

from the other side

of a huge pane window

on the newly renovated office building,

appearing a bit more disheveled

than I remembered.

More wrinkles

supported his grimace

and receding hairline,

acknowledging me

when I nodded hello.

I used to know him well,

athletic, sculpted, artistic,

a well-defined physique,

but his apparent paunch

negated any recent activity.

This window man

I thought I knew,

musician, writer, runner, dreamer,

now feasted off the stale menu

of advancing age,

aches, excuses, laziness,

failing eyesight and an appetite

for attained rights

decades seem to imply.

Yet I accepted him,

embraced him for who he was,

aware that he would be the lone soul

to accompany me

toward the tunnel’s light

when all others have drawn the blinds.

“Walk with me,” I say.

He stays close.

by Michael Keshigian

If there were no rain,

there would be

far too little noise on the roof

or upon the windowpane

that would distract us

from the pulse in our inner ear

through the silence at night,

no gutter song to lull us to sleep,

no applause of wet leaves

for thirst-quenching relief.

In a cloudless sky

and barren landscape,

the rain would no longer

astonish our senses

with torrents that flood the riverbeds

then angrily fall from summit’s edge

upon boulders that spray

a foaming mane of platinum.

Car wheels would pass like a cough,

the absence of a splash

that might instigate our adrenalin,

administers calm instead.

The sky would no longer

be crowded with giant gray eyelids

that occasionally coax

the sun to sleep

and allow us to focus

upon the mysterious messages

their odd, translucent shapes impart.

Without the rain,

our very lives would drift instead,

fantasy vapors

against the cobalt blue,

twinkling and as aimless as dust.

by Michael Keshigian

Her eyes

and the lake

are his memories,

cobalt images of clarity

and purity, running deep.

It was in this cove

where the black-spotted loon

dove head first

into the heart of blue,

attracting the tender pulse

of her affection

inciting her

to follow the creature

into the watery sweep

tangled with milfoil

that snarled her hair

while the checkered fowl

dutifully hunted

for its young.

Her blue eyes wide,

blended eventually

with the ripple of current

that swept beneath the surface.

He visited that cove often thereafter,

especially those days

where the sun’s gleam

highlighted the blue ghost

within the restless ripples

that will forever

wrap him in riddles.

by Michael Keshigian

He found himself at the symphony

where the sophisticated people milled about,

dropping names while drinking champagne

served in the entrance foyer.

A quite haughty yet beautiful woman

approached him, stepped out of her dress

and sat in the seat next to his,

her attire falling to her ankles.

She stated that only he, presently, 

and her husband, not in attendance,

had peeked the enhanced cleavage

created by her push-up under garments.

The spotlight turned from the conductor

upon his podium to highlight

her abundant breasts, 

though the diamond necklace around her neck

produced a glare that blinded his stare

and caused him to fall forward 

while the orchestra played the “Habanera”

from Bizet’s Carmen.

He awoke squeezing the ample pillows

upon which he slept.

An hour later, he stared out the window

at the rain-drenched lawn

when a black bear entered

his field of vision,

a huge, angry bear, walking upright,

with matted fur from the ensuing cloudbursts

that created a stick-like figure

when the beast turned sideways,

lifted his head toward dark heaven

and roared a window-shattering plea

then galloped toward the house for respite,

pounding thunderously at the door 

which woke him for the second time this night.

by Michael Keshigian

Noise to his silence,

light to his darkness

she walks through his brain

singing and spins melodies 

in his head.

He hears her small breathing

when she hides 

in closets with no handles

and surprises him in the shower,

her body all soapy.

She slips in and out of beautiful

yet he sees her just the same

and sometimes wonders

how she arrived

and what her mission might be.

The years sneak by

like mice across the field,

yet she remains as inexplicable 

as her underwear hanging on the line 

in his basement workshop.