waitress poems

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

MICHAEL

Eighteen years in the same house
and I still drink my coffee
thick with cream
from the same blue cup;
my slippers scuff across the floor
as I migrate, cup in hand,
toward my morning desk.
I peer into the computer
as if it were a mirror or
the night sky or
a lake where someone
I loved very much
was drowned.

I say the drowning victim
wasn't me. I drink
my coffee thick with cream
from the same blue cup;
my slippers scuff across the floor
as I migrate, cup in hand
toward my morning desk.

Later the postman will come
with the daily mail: Michael.
Eighteen years ago, he was tall and blond.
Now he walks across
a field of buried pets
who played at guarding our lives
to reach the mailbox. His shoulders
slope and his eyes are pale when he
drops another day into the box.
More news of our extinction.

(A brand new poem. Yay!)

4 Comments:

  • the passing of time makes me feel so sad sometimes, you have captured it so well it in this poem.

    By Blogger gulnaz, at 1:39 AM  

  • Sigh...If I could capture all the moments that have fled, all the people I've cared for and the things I've done and what's been said and hold them still so that I could visit them, relive then any time I wanted to I would...but time passes. It won't be stayed.

    That's how I felt when I read this...sigh

    By Blogger easywriter, at 9:05 AM  

  • Thanks, Gulnaz and easywriter. If there's such a thing as ideal readers who understand exactly what I meant to convey, you are it.

    By Blogger Patry Francis, at 10:56 AM  

  • You do such lovely work. I'm glad I stopped by.

    By Blogger Vickie, at 6:55 PM  

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