Theodore Eisenberg

Stone-by-stone, a house constructs
a view above the water line. Stone
strictures extend each side, impelling falls. 
I watch remains from the impending thirties. 
Whether 3 or 5, one carved number
will not spell. My companion says WPA. 
My father, then a boy, had he been alive
today. The dead have never lived; argon.
Continuing … before The War they
did not know. Old beauties these stones.  
I am about to ask, WPA? He stares,
supposing me. Light-stricken streams
plunge and tumble only to resume.  
Bubbles breathe below. If there are fish,
I do not see them.  I fear my glasses
will leap, follow what I cannot see.


Theodore Eisenberg recently retired from the practice of labor law after 38 years. He is writing poetry full-time.

Issue 13

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