the fossil record

The Keyholes of Scranton

Imagine yourself as God,

Here to judge, not just to terrify,

With your flashlight in the keyholes,

Illuminating the little lives of the people inside,

As if it cast eyebeams into the darkest corners

Of the low rent apartments on Clay Avenue.

How you’re on your knees,

Like a lover crawling into the bedroom in foreplay.

How she sprawls on the bed to be admired,

Listening for footsteps on the landing,

Her clothes thrown on the back of the room’s only chair;

How you shine your light on the little boy inside the next room

Standing on a folding chair,

His hands above his head as if he were surrendering,

Seeing what life will be like when he’s full grown.

Your light throws his hand shadows on the ceiling,

A little rabbit chasing a barking dog;

In the last, an old man about sixty,

Slumps in a recliner with his back to the door.

He’s watching television, but what’s on

Can’t be seen because your light glares off the glass,

Unless you hold it slightly askew.

Then it looks as if he’s studying your eye.

In your mercy, you switch off your light

And leave them in the dark where they belong.

Ron Yazinski