SKELETON OF SMOKE

This is a poem I recently wrote for my painting. The painting itself was created over 15 years 

SKELETON OF SMOKE

A boy stretches his neck toward the sky.

His eyes glisten like oil on a puddle.

The skeleton of a whale sways above him.

It flies and drifts.

It flies and drifts.

"Do you see it?" the boy asks,

His voice thin, easily carried by the wind,

Which carries the scent of algae and rust.

A woman clutches a bag in her right hand.

Her hands tremble, but not from the cold.

Inside the bag are letters that never reached their destination:

One letter for a son,

One for a daughter,

And one for no one special,

For no one important.

A man with a cane limps forward.

Old shoes creak,

And the ground beneath them murmurs,

Murmurs without end.

"Are there any more trains?" he asks.

But there is no answer,

No one to hear him.

The train behind the house is silent.

It only watches.

The rusty cabin looks at the sea—

Eyes empty, pupils made of glass and steel.

The tracks lead nowhere.

Far away, a ship’s horn wails,

A lament that spreads out.

Behind the house, behind them, behind the half-open window,

Someone who once waited for the train,

Someone who still waits,

Waits for it to come.

Now they only look at the deep sea.

Look and smoke a large pipe.

Maybe they own a wooden car.

Maybe buildings.

Maybe even the skeleton of the whale in the sky that still sways in place.

Everything is frozen.

Even the smoke from the pipe.

The old man, woman, and boy—all frozen.

Why? Why?

The chimney behind the building releases thick smoke,

And it too is frozen.

Like the smoke from the pipe we don’t see,

But feel,

For some strange reason.

Where are the workers?

Are they at work?

Are they okay?

Are they hungry?

Where are their children?

Where? Where?

Why does the whale skeleton hang frozen in flight?

Where is it flying?

What is its fate?

Why is it frozen?

Why? Why?

ANGOULÊME 2025