Monday

I stare into my coffee as if it will give me answers, a swirl of black coffee foaming from the press. It isn’t talking. Maybe some tea.

I’ve been here before–a cold, hard rock and a lost place. I am not a child. I sit paralyzed. The door annoys and the phone is an intrusion.

There is one thing that is tolerable. And as a child, music could soothe me. But which? Blues is too sad. Would jazz make me bitch-slap someone?

Ah, Brahms,my old friend.I smile and squeeze his hand. No,It must be Ludwig. Do understand. It is not you, it’s me. There is so much at stake.

Continue reading “Monday”

Advertisements

Passion and politics

Raindrops are lost to clods of dirt
stirred by your footfall
you–-so much taller than I–
I thought they were your tears
falling over my head;

I wish you had been sober
when you said you wanted me
I wish
you had been kinder
when you got sober;

You voted badly
and I knew it
you hammered me with your politics
while you didn’t know shit
about foreign policy;

You said you hated the Beatles
but you still could have stayed–
until you smashed
my ABBA record, and it was I
walking out;

I miss you staring into my eyes
’til I had to look down–
I miss staring at your lap
’til you blushed;

It is raining again
beating against
the clods of dirt
stirred up by your footfall
I still listen for

Precious

She cried during Star Wars
and he laughed at her
which made her cry more
turning to lay her cheek
against the cool glass
raindrops on the window
like diamonds

‘Isn’t it precious,’ she thought
lighting a cigarette
and hearing him cough
from across the room
but he’d never tell her to stop
crazy about her grumpy moods
in love with how she exhaled

“Maybe we should get away,” he said
getting up and walking over
kneeling at her feet, and
wrapping his arms about her legs
hearing her reply how she liked
things the way they were, and
feeling her fingers in his hair

 

Eaten

Her bitterness grew, eating her organs gradually. When her doctor read the
x-rays, he showed her where her heart used to be, reduced, he said, to the
size of a radish.
“Why are things always compared to food?” she asked.
“Maybe,” he suggested to her, “because of what is eating you.”
She went away, pondering how she might grow a new heart. Perhaps it was
something she could bake in the oven or grow in the garden.

Pre-threnody (before you go)

I don’t want anything of his when he is gone. Not a damned thing.
We didn’t talk for 20 years, and now he tells me stories. He tells me things about my mother I never knew, and I tuck them away like perfumed handkerchiefs in small drawers. I may never open them again, but they are there, preserved for posterity. Someone will want them and treasure them. Or someone careless will throw them in the trash.

it is not as if I kept a list

00lacytree

it was snowing a few days before Christmas
and he put his jacket around my shoulders
the smell of leather, a memory, rose
between us
in the clouds from our mouths

the snow looked like diamonds in my hair
he said, and kissed my forehead
while I finished my story, about
the one that got away, the one
that broke me in two for ten months–

he laughed a little at the end
and I shrugged, running a block ahead
while he picked up his jacket
brushed it off
and tried to make sense of me

catching up he grabbed my arm
and I pulled it away
then he called me sweetheart
and I stopped. ‘didn’t you break some hearts
back then?’ he asked–

I turned and smiled, and
he handed me his coat
putting my arms into the sleeves.
I held his hands

‘yeah I did, didn’t I? huh, I had forgotten,’
I said–
and we walked through the park
until it stopped snowing, until
we had run out of memories to tell

I thought death had better manners

death-2024663_1280

 

 

A shadow fell across me
and the shelves of canned tomatoes
before me at the local market
someone breathing–heavy enough
close enough to feel it upon my neck

I moved an obligatory two steps
toward the green beans
but the shadow moved with me
like the mouth-breathers from
middle school

I made a quick move to leave the aisle
when a black-robed figure
skirted around me, knocking off
half a dozen cans
with a garden tool

Finally in line, with my 2 cans
of pizza sauce and a rotisserie chicken
I saw the black robe putting groceries
on the conveyor, and when he turned
his head I saw it was the grim reaper

I said, “Hey man–how come
you have 32 items in the express lane?”
Everything stopped. The store
was shrouded in silence. The cashier
looked at me in horror

Death’s hand stopped in mid-air
holding a box of Corn Pops.
“You know,” I said
“That stuff’ll kill you.”

 


from 2015
image by pixabay.com

Your Loss, pt. 11

1940's airport

The beginning of the story

One day in London turned into Petra and Robert replaying the good parts of Niagara Falls. The first two days were spent fasting, and nearly dehydrating, in their hotel room. On the third day Petra and Robert ventured out, finding their way to a restaurant, and then to a racetrack, somewhere Petra could place a bet. It could have been anywhere, but Robert did love the horses. They got his heart racing in a way that nothing else could with the exception of the roulette table. Petra went along with it without much to say. She could live without gambling for once– the entire escapade a gamble, whether they lived or died, together or alone.

Continue reading “Your Loss, pt. 11”

Monday Random: nostalgic

  • I miss what Twinkies tasted like before. I can’t eat them often, but now and then it would be nice to have one taste like it used to
  • I am still going through boxes and downsizing since the move. It was hard to get rid of some things then. Now, a little easier, but sometimes I still sit with a paper in my hand, or a book, or momento and I can’t let it go.
  • I never thought that would happen to me
  • I really don’t like clutter.

Continue reading “Monday Random: nostalgic”

Your loss, pt. 5

black gown crop

part 1
part 2
part 3
part 4

Didn’t Charles say that he would always take care of her? Petra opened the expansive closet doors in her suite and surveyed what her husband had filled it up with. Dresses, gowns in several colors, skirts, blouses, an alpaca jacket, a pair of beaded lounge pants, and every ridiculous hat in fashion in both Paris and New York. Below were shoes, not shoes like someone might take on holiday, but shoes that a woman might accumulate over a lifetime. She did not react or squeal or get particularly excited or giddy, because this was her life. He had said she would never be left wanting and he had kept his part of the bargain. Her part was simple in theory–do everything he askd of her. So far she had done so, and without question. He had never had to get rough with her or even order her about. She was a tough girl and a little sadistic, just enough to enjoy what she was doing.

Continue reading “Your loss, pt. 5”