Poetry

PSEUDONYMOUS By Sy Roth

The pond in our condo,
soundless without its splashing fountains,
rests against a quiescent morning.

Hoary frost on its surface
shimmers against the bluing sky.
Crackles slightly with the traffic noise
that hustles by outside of the gates.

Inside, cars race their engines to shake off the cold
belching white clouds of smoke to
transport workers to places
where they suffer recognition.

The rest reside,
pseudonymous beings,
against a backdrop of abbreviated time.

The travelers just don’t recognize it yet.