Richard Schnap

CIRCUIT

 

I look down at my palms
Creased like dry river beds

As I sit in my room
Its walls white as paper

In a house among houses
All wearing the same face

The same wooden uniform
In an army of small towns

Of a nation under a flag
Stained with a thousand tears

Riding a blue world
Through a room black as ash

Toward a man in a chair
Looking down at his palms

Creased like dry river beds
That he’s somehow seen before

 

 

 

Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh,
Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally
and overseas in a variety of print and online publications.

Promote. Poetry.
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