The redbrick house jabbers french windows,
air conditioner rectangles jut into the free standing air.
the corseted lady, in long drapes stares at them
See through rag, diaphanous resemblance of the face we can see,
the eyebrows in a wiggle we threat to draw, yet people line up behind.
the passengers sit, we exist
The book to open, see the girl and tables with strangers,
stared from afar, the paper doll and the family estranged.
yet the story was long ago
The trees may strike desolate, dry, empty,
but lady justice tenders the lamp, the flickered
and the damp cloth that fires
Stairs to sketch on, dancing behind the beams of light and fire,
imprisoned behind her face,
painted on with white opera porcelain,
a red triangle on her lips.
the newspaper told of the ashed to ground edifice
Benedict Downing has written fiction, poetry since his adolescence. He joined local community reading circles, workshops, college literary groups, and ventured into his own. Has published fiction and poetry in literary magazines and journals. He is currently working in his second novel. Two published books are “Sidereal Reflux” (Poetry. 2011) and “Epicrisis” (Novel. 2014).