SETTLE

Lost, in the search for his beloved in O Henry's character of "The shadowed room"

the folded waters of the sea before me, the unruffled stack of white plastic chairs tug my attention

cheeks and fingers cool with the gulf air remind of rumbles in my stomach,

hot pumpkin soup in the flask ready to silence internal growls

my yellow pen moves fast to jot my scattered thoughts

jumpy that the receding waves of the dusk may swallow

less tensed though, than the global economies of the tariffs flung

 

the story's character unequipped to trace her in London's streets

I, unprepared to pattern my sporadic ideas

the world puzzled at the new double digits to be coughed at ports

noises in the belly impatient to wait further

the beloved dies, the hero never knows, tired flops on the bed

my ideas settle on the white plain paper, my temporary bookmark

phone calls and negotiations commence between nations

my stomach silent, pacified with the taste of the soup

each do find their own solace.