Tuesday, July 16, 2013


He arranges neatly each item.  His possessions.  Obsessively.
With wonted urge for leaving and a pride in lack;
wanderlust greater than desire for her
So, he pockets wallet,
secures beneath adam's
the bowtie she called stupid,
 the pocket opposite, places
         pocket knife,
             cherished but unused.
In another pocket, this on shirt, he positions pen.  He is nothing if not prepared.  Lastly, glasses,
                                      so he can see.  See
the courage in her
 he's never owned nor known.  Tall, erect, unchanging, he
surveys woman and her home. Her
                              heartbeat deafens - or is that his? She
                                     bleeds color and her house is
Her frame moves, forms to fit, then
           moves again.
Her flux unlike his.
                        She is not restless but free.
                        Self-luminous and
He almost reaches out.  She flickers -
he stops. Turns from her burning flush, (She is sharp and shimmering.  He is shadowed.)
winces at the
hanging illustration he
has always hated.
                    The likeness that emasculates,
                    the tantalizing blues,
                             inviting blacks.
She, violaceous as these, voluminous, visible,
                           tinged in too sultry sapphire, thirsty and in bloom.
                                                               hues intrigued, now they
                                                                            glare and question.
All he has
is his.
      So, he pockets, now,
mock of power,
straightens what he can purport is wisdom,
                                                       departs with practiced lie.

Write at the Merge

1 comment:

  1. So interesting to think about that sort of leaving as a practiced defense against something he wishes he could have.