The Other Side
Stephen R. Roberts
Little ones want to play hide and go seek.
They want me to go first, that is, hide
while they try to find me.
I take up residence in the bathroom.
Lock the door. Turn out the lights.
Soon they come pounding, yelling,
Grandpa, are you in there?
No answer.
They whisper among themselves.
We know you’re in there, Grandpa.
I remain silent.
They discuss matters, possibilities
of other places, perhaps the garage
where I would fit, or the pantry
in which I wouldn’t. They comment
that there could be a dark mirror
on the other side of the door.
Finally, in a voice not unlike mine,
but not mine, I respond.
There’s no one in here.
Momentarily there’s shuffling of little feet,
mumblings of wavering words and phrases.
Within seconds they walk away
amazed at how I could possibly do that.
I want the reader of this poem to do the same.
Recently retired from the
insurance claims business Stephen R. Roberts resides on eight acres of
Hoosier soil, pretending it to be wilderness. He spends more time now pondering
trees, envying birds, playing with grandchildren, not necessarily in that
order. He has recently had poems published or accepted in Steam
Ticket, Slant, Passager, Timber Creek Review, and Ellipsis. He
continues to write as if the world doesn't depend on it.