top of page
  • Writer's pictureErrol Rubenstein


I hunger for cleaner air, for the haze

to clear, for the smog to disperse, for a cleansing rain.

Threads hang loose from my jacket, my boots are caked

with mud, my shirt ripped and torn. There are holes

in the knees of my blues. Where is the joy

that I have built my house on? Where the heart

that has mended? Where the breath? Where

the smile that cracks my face in two?

I feel the need for my old companion, my compatriot.

For his gender-bending daughter and unemployable son.

For his attractive wife and her pale blue eyes.

For his loose strokes on the tennis court and funky serve.

For his need for a dog in order to save his marriage.

I would like to regale him over lunch with stories

of my own family, with tales of my escapades corralling

unruly children at work. I need his taste in beer, his disdain

for coffee, his sweet tooth that is overindulged.

We have children who play with toys. We are children playing with toys:

We fire cannons at imaginary enemies. We erect statues to fallen heroes.

We ride horses into battle.

We are wild within our own dreams.

Faces look past me, through me, as if I were air.

We are all part dirt, part godhead.

Those I meet look like those I have not yet met.

Published in Common Ground Review 2020

See publication below!

Recent Posts

See All


Huddle in hallway corners To discuss false claims and accusations levelled against you; When the metal jaws clamp down And your flag of freedom hangs limp in the dead breeze And your means to sustenan


Trees are shocking to me in their naked and undisguised irregularity. Trunk hunkered down in the ground, roots spread like eels, scrutinizing the soil beneath, a knothole a woodpecker pecked making a


The sun set long ago: light is gone now from the window at the back of the house. The moon shines down upon the spaces where light has gone out. Today I missed no one. Tomorrow I may mourn. Your love,


bottom of page