FRANKLIN, ALONE?

By John Grey

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The frost - does it bite or burn? 
It lingers on windowpane,
a hint of warmth in the chill, 
and yet a lie dressed in snow.

The owl - does it hoot or chirp? 
Its voice is strange tonight. 
It sings in reverse, 
a nursery rhyme for the dead.

The hare - does it leave tracks or gold? 
It scampers through the wasteland, 
metal clinking in its wake, 
but no prints, no proof, no past.

The voice – no matter where
it comes from -
does it speak to me? 
Or is it rehearsing alone, 
in the corner where 
the wallpaper flakes, 
where the mouths move 
but the faces are no more?

Am I Franklin? 
Or is that just the name 
carved into this bedframe,
etched deep in the wood.

I am forgetting. The facts have fled. 
I’ll need new ones soon –
ones that don’t bleed when handled.