He’s bent, carrying the heaviness of the sky,
the day drags, light lags behind
like cape rolls over dry land.
Air spreads the sweaty smell of fresh baked potato
from the neighboring house.
As the incoming night invokes long forgotten rattling
of the fishscales in his boy-pocket,
tonight, at 24:00 sharp, he will take the same position:
Guardian of the fairytale gate –
with bowed head, and faithless grin he is
ready to escape his own world in dim.
Maja S. Todorovic