So I wait for you,
accordion straw in a cold shake,
with granules of ice and thick with cream,
watching them from across the counter.
And how she laughs,
keeps one hand on his knee,
and he in turn reaches to slip his arm
over one soft shoulder.
You must have forgotten,
been distracted, unaware of time.
("He has patience, it doesn't matter much,"
the contents of your thoughts.)
They sip together with dual straws
in one towering fountain glass.
Hands clasped I'm sure, under the tabletop,
thumbs locked in gentle caress.
The clock refuses to pause,
to wait, though I've willed it
to forget to advance, to ignore the silent
ticking of its own hands.
I watch as her eyes remain,
never wavering, a subtle stare
of devotion into his ochre eyes, his sickly eyes,
those eyes that I hate.
For there is no hope in mine,
not with you there across the counter,
your head unturned, never looking back, not once.
You have forgotten,
in memories I never inhabited. Idly I stir the
frothy contents of my deliquescence.
Like myself, dissolved,
marked by the invisible assailants of morosity,
divining loss for all.
For him.
For you.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
3 comments:
matt i was reading some stuff my teacher brad buchanan has published and you have a similar way of words as him...critics call the structure "muscular," a term i find rather interesting. deliquescence, huh? did i spell that right? very nice, very sweet and strange and sad images here.
makes me love being sad
Wow, my kids are such great writers, I rate you and Joey up there with Truman, o Heather has got it too, what a way to evoke strange, sad feelings and images... i like it.
Post a Comment