There is a boot scrape outside my door. Damn thing sheds more dirt and dust than gets knocked loose surely. It is out of its’ time, and perhaps it was the romance of the thing that spurred me to bring it home. That and the grass of the back yard five dogs let loose destroyed too easy. Grass that law fallow, my attention on the roses. Try, try different, try more, try harder, this marriage can work, I said; my mantra.
In the end though, it didn’t, did it. I lost the house, the dogs gone with the man. Dirt and mud, hadn’t been much of thing since then.
Until my new girl and her little leash…
I knock my boot against the step, watch the dust fly as I scrape heel to toe, my darling girl sitting neat, gazing at the wonder of things in the air and her woman speaking soft and low.
No more cages where the big dogs eat our food, crowd us out, leave us in the corner.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
come, poet
In a land more time and space, a galaxy close at hand, lay the thoughts you’re about to know but have never stopped to think.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
the good wife
When she was married
Sunday mornings lingered
long into the eve
after Saturdays were spent
at the movies
in the shops
accumulating
life’s little things.
All the week, they
would sit
worn from work
watch the telly –
watch the telly –
watch the telly –
succor
what she cooked
in grand fanfare.
Then the years came on
seeming swift and so
after a few shows
he would remove
to another room
to play his games,
get checked on
get called to dinner.
To work, to store
to home again,
more time for she
to wash the linens
sweep the hearth,
put his dinner away
uneaten
and in the morn
untouched.
More years came on.
After meeting mates
for a few, he
removed
to another room
to play his games,
get checked on,
get called to dinner
arrive too late,
bemoan the days…
For she
in her eves
reverted to words
in a single sitting
in the room where
the telly gathered dust
writing
for her studies.
His days grayed
Her days brightened
He watched her leave
one day
from the window,
his next wife,
the good wife,
would nag.
Sunday mornings lingered
long into the eve
after Saturdays were spent
at the movies
in the shops
accumulating
life’s little things.
All the week, they
would sit
worn from work
watch the telly –
watch the telly –
watch the telly –
succor
what she cooked
in grand fanfare.
Then the years came on
seeming swift and so
after a few shows
he would remove
to another room
to play his games,
get checked on
get called to dinner.
To work, to store
to home again,
more time for she
to wash the linens
sweep the hearth,
put his dinner away
uneaten
and in the morn
untouched.
More years came on.
After meeting mates
for a few, he
removed
to another room
to play his games,
get checked on,
get called to dinner
arrive too late,
bemoan the days…
For she
in her eves
reverted to words
in a single sitting
in the room where
the telly gathered dust
writing
for her studies.
His days grayed
Her days brightened
He watched her leave
one day
from the window,
his next wife,
the good wife,
would nag.