Forgotten

Forgotten

He arrived from Lebanon

ready to repair and sell carpets.

Gold and ruby fibers

put the mystery of time to rest.

He doesn't know

the twentieth century

will part like a blizzard,

same as every other.

When night barges in

without hands

ticking won't be necessary

―mountains

and magical mango trees,

will shed the light 
of a lost recollection.

Blood says nothing

of his Maronite prayers

or of his grief in an old

Kobayat alley

where he scattered

his childhood.

But a longing for an Arabic

call to prayer is rare.