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
to your wife.