I scan the park for its owner,
but there’s only a raucous crow
harassing the morning’s relative quiet:
the din of highway traffic, the collective rustle
of wind-blown leaves, the tidal rise and fall
of joyous screams from the school playground.
The knapsack could be a person,
sitting crossed-legged, slouched in a shadow.
The chirping of a nearby cricket glues
together the endless blue of autumn
from scraps of summer skies. The sun
warms the picnic table, which grew cold
and lonely over night. I sit and stare
at the knapsack and I can’t tell if it’s breathing.
About this Poem
Michael e. Casteels prefers his walks late at night, while the city slumbers. His best poems are stolen from the Lost & Found. One day he will wake up before his alarm clock, but not today. He lives and breathes in Kingston, where he runs Puddles of Sky Press.
Michael has appeared previously on the KFPL Poetry Blackboard and he is the author of the poetry collection The Last White House at the End of the Row of White Houses (2016, from Invisible Publishing).
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