I have a habit of reading my older work. While I often find it flawed and badly in need of a rewrite, I sometimes find myself in a particular mood and certain pieces strike me. It tops the list of reasons why I keep and read older work. Finding something new, or even finding an old emotion, makes it worth while. Here are two that vibrated a few strings this morning.
Opening dinner with dirty plates,
milk filled glasses rest
contented on slanted edges,
counting upwards we get to twenty
before taking a breath. Chairs
linking chairs, contemplate conformity,
no reason beyond just thinking.
I’m welcome to pretend standing
next to you is enough. Scent of
almost sex, almost faking it,
nearly lost in useless smiling.
Cooking for the pleasure
of watching you wonder whether
tasting is enough in every instance,
or at least this one. You will be here,
tattering paper towels for penance,
sheltering feelings with bouncing
eyes better fit for gaping, as if
you deserve this permanent souvenir
of just how pathetic we both are.
with three more white chairs,
from a speaker
Sharing a paper
cup and too sweet to remember
why you ever stopped to begin with
then catching up,
I glimpse in you,
turned up sheets
and torn jeans.
Even tones juxtaposed, syncopated alliteration
in every sentence
slipping from restrained lips.
I am more than this stale coffee,
more than bakery goods
left gentle on the plates for the over-eager
to rummage through, the line stretching
past our over-crowded table.
Always more in the glance down
than anyone lets on.
You too are blue with me,
this one day,
powdered and purring.