A Toast ( A poem)

Down, Down

the pallet falls, grinding flour at the mill

but this arm rests it’s cavelair wooden leg

on the cusp of the love seat.


In my cotton gloves

and leather jacket, I swindle you

pouring cups of cold earl grey

into a empty china plates.


We light the fire,

let the warmth descend from stove top

and all is still here.


Only bare table, laced with the

geraniums we picked last fall.

We built our swings on the back porch.


Still tremor, the clock

with the decadence of hand

moving backwards through the tumult of time

and you lace your fingers through mine.


Not with words, nor pits of affection

but with cuffs and locke’s

with keys, and screws bolted shut

across my liver.


It only happened twice a year,

this shared meal,

where you’d come in through the front door,

wiping your feet on the cheap newspaper mat,

I’d set down under the door,


a trough catching muddy rain water,

but not nearly large enough

and some spills to the floor.


Only, you left before night fell.

and the bookshelf, beckons you home.

Bades you to sit, as I do, now.


On the old divan.


I used to write of you

and for you, but the ink cocked shut

and crumbled into eraser dust.

Blanketing my fingers with musty stains.


Dark and deep

insinuating your vacancy.

Afternoon dreary, fills my brow

with disastrous curves.


A temptation, belies you,

a tassel whimpers frightfully

on the edge of the curtain,

sloping down across the wall.


When last we met, you regaled me

with a word of panicked rage.

thrumming the leaflet for

the daily news,


Only there is no invitation left to give

no word left to say.

but if by chance you happen to cross my way.


I imagine you will lean your hat to me

and I a pleasant nod,

we will tip glasses, exchange a rousing toast,

you toasting my good healthy

and the hospitality of my bed

and I

to your wife.


~Melodic Rose~



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