Damn, Sylvia

Here in a musty basement,
all curdled milk carpet and soot stained walls-
who lays carpet in a kitchen?
Who lights a fireplace in a matchbox?

There, there are windows at the far wall,
Rectangles of glass and rain, rain, rain.
Beyond them, the bushes and the ferns are ever green.
Even in their grey and slumbering sleep.
They keep their promises
until the bright of spring.

Here in a cubicle room I waste,
I am a small sun with no leaves to taste.

Here in my mind made of turbines, I fold
the laundry and the blankets and
the corners of my lips, my eyes.
My hairs are silvering, and signal my demise.
I cry over the sound of a strange man’s voice, his scent like opiate, lips like a choice.
The way he will open his mouth, close his eyes to take a bite of food.

My eyes don’t leak over a greying mane.

I am sprawled, just slightly,
my lips part and gasp like lightning
in the hobbit hole I inhabit like a mole
missing my morbid mate.

Write our names in chalk on the slate.

There is food on the plate, and that’s enough.
There is food on the plate, and that’s enough.

Do I dream of bees, and corvid calamity
under a glowering sky?
Do I, or do they beckon me?

We both know that the evening is waiting
so it’s of no consequence.
At the end of the lane with a wilted lily in his palm,
he waits for us in his dark suit like he’s ready for prom.

The sky and I prefer to hide.

We have a basement, and rain, rain, rain.
The night can wait, he can stand at the gate.

What’s a game if the players aren’t playing?


3 thoughts on “Damn, Sylvia

  1. Hi K.,

    Okay you win the internet poetry contest for best line of the week with “I am a small sun with no leaves to taste.” Others abound and anybody who puts “there, there” can’t be all bad. You need to get out more. Get somebody to buy you a few drinks down at that bar where Kurt Cobain used to hang out in white-knuckleville where the big trees leap out into the highway. Thanks. Duke, the Grey Slate Guy.

    Liked by 1 person

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