Consciousness (a poem)

After the fire the neighbour took the goldfish in
Bikewheels turning
and a comforting 'Tick...tick'
from one of the peddles.

Drifting away slowly
on the sound of the whistling wind
that she allowed to touch her hair
when a thought led to fresh coffee
in the morning
and broken shoes in the hallway
when the game stopped

at consciousness.

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Want to read (more of) my short stories? My author page: Terrence Weijnschenk at Amazon