FRANCIS MASAT

The Poetry Of..
Francis Masat.....................................................

Saplings

If you didn't look,
you would not see it
on the arm
of a mall bench.
But there it was
carved
into cherry colored wood.
Stroke upon stroke
until it said
' SueMark '.
I later observed,
inside and out,
only saplings.

The Last Scoop

There seemed to be enough -
.. enough for me at least -
.... last I looked.
Had I known, I could have
.. postponed.
But for what, when this end is met?
There is no more - but who knew?

I sensed not the bottom nearing.
But for the chance
.. - of one last scoop -
.... I was shocked. I
Did not think I ever would
.. run out - little used -
Infrequent - never needy.

The brand discontinued
.. the day made,
I was lucky to receive
.. all that I did.
That the last came so soon,
my fault for not paying -
.. deeper attention?

The last taste was all
.. the more poignant,
All the more flavorful
.. when measured
Against all the first times -
.. knowing it was..... the last
Hushed not the scream within.

Near tears I moved on,
.. savoring each taste.
Now, memories must suffice
.. my appetite
For the rarest of tastes -
.. the last scoop.

Crack

A crack in our wall has not changed,
though I left this exact spot long ago.

How long I've been gone means nothing;
the fracture has not changed one bit.

Others see the crack, only in a certain light.
I can see it, though, with my eyes closed.

And I can feel it, seeping deeper, deeper.
I tried to fix it, but failed on each attempt.

Perhaps such cracks so deeply grown
are best left ignored - and unattended to.

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