A quatrain is defined as a four-line stanza. There are no more rules to what a quatrain must be, but my poetry workshop professor insisted our quatrains be composed in unrhymed iambic pentameter (blank verse). I spent a few hours attempting to compose a new poem about this kid I met in Charleston who is schizophrenic and kept hiding behind a red scarf, but that was to no avail. So, I sought the aid of a poem I had written previously, hence the title.
427 North Colorado Avenue
Our fingers sweep along the counter, past
the ancient toaster oven, past the clock
that always blinks ahead, the box of sweets,
now empty. Months ago, the house contained
the noise of habit: blaring news throughout
the day; a snoring hour, as news replays
across a silent screen. The trail, the smell
of toast against three yolks, is lost in rooms,
in goods, now void of him. A box of brown
and dust, with labels marked in pen, endures,
imbued with photos past: a dance in black
and white; some shots of wives and happy kids,
all frozen. Lights negate his lack, convince
us he is here, that life remains. We turn
them off, evict his flame, and move toward
the door, the dark foreseeing new lessees.
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