There is no claim
Beyond words
Which carry my heart
Through this basement
Letting bookstacks lay
Almost dormant
With each verse inside
Still unsaid

To stake what faith
Catches dust
After years down here
Grown complacent
By the light of screens
Glowing static
And their analog hiss
Dearly missed

Like old whispers
Of permanent grace
Through rewinding scenes
Barely perfect
As yesterday’s sound
Always stutters
What my broken ears
Only catch

When that fading light
Tosses back
Such monochrome scenes
Nearly gorgeous
Along musty shelves
Hiding artifacts
Between figures sat
Over tapes

For reminding hope
Mustn’t tell
Yet express in pain
Trading glimpses
Of those schoolyard ways
Almost innocent
Though oddly harsh
Staring back

Pressing play once more
Seeking proof
How these films long gone
Aren’t trophies
But nostalgic junk
Under boxes
Keeping poetry here
Where it starts.

• J. Pigno