“Joshua Tree” by Marguerite Pyne, grade 12
I quietly creep up to one’s doorstep
I peek through the upstairs bedroom window
The family sat by the bed and wept
The sobbing wife shall become a widow
The front door unlatches with a soft click
I start up the stairs sneaking to the room
There lies the grandfather on the bed, sick.
They sit around him, preparing his tomb
I glide through the door, but nobody sees
I stare at the man, I think he knows me
We exchange silent words, he seems to freeze
I think he knows, I am life’s bourgeoisie.
For I am a wrinkle in space and time
But I must leave now, as the bell has chimed.
