Sunday
I think I'll post a poem once a week. IF I can't write a new one every week, then I'll post a reworked older poem. I got a few of those. And here's one that I just discovered. Not even sure I ever posted it.
Regret
when we first moved in, “The Right Side.” The name chosen
by you, no doubt, to commemorate your point of view whenever
we argued over some unimportant, domestic issue like whether
or not I should toss my dirty socks in the middle of the living room
floor, leaving them there to pile up until “Laundry Sunday.”
than a locomotive passing through our apartment.
But that thick glob of golden brown hair that always
clogged the bathtub drain? No, I don’t miss that at all!
Standing ankle deep in lukewarm water every time
I took a shower isn’t a fond memory.
angry at you for a moment because you’re not here to answer.
Sometimes I’ll roll over in the middle of the night,
my fingers reach for you ... and touch nothing but darkness.
Sometimes I hear a funny story at work
and say to myself, “She’ll get a kick out of that ...”
then realize you won’t be there when I get home.
rrw 1-4-12 (rewrites o1-25-15)
I think I'll post a poem once a week. IF I can't write a new one every week, then I'll post a reworked older poem. I got a few of those. And here's one that I just discovered. Not even sure I ever posted it.
The bedroom stays moderately cool since your hasty departure.
Particularly frigid that side of the bed you claimed for
your ownwhen we first moved in, “The Right Side.” The name chosen
by you, no doubt, to commemorate your point of view whenever
we argued over some unimportant, domestic issue like whether
or not I should toss my dirty socks in the middle of the living room
floor, leaving them there to pile up until “Laundry Sunday.”
Can’t say I regret the absence of your snoring even though
it wasn’t an unpleasant sound. More like a baby breathing than a locomotive passing through our apartment.
But that thick glob of golden brown hair that always
clogged the bathtub drain? No, I don’t miss that at all!
Standing ankle deep in lukewarm water every time
I took a shower isn’t a fond memory.
I often forget that you’re gone asking you questions
as I place my one plate and one fork into the dishwasher, angry at you for a moment because you’re not here to answer.
Sometimes I’ll roll over in the middle of the night,
my fingers reach for you ... and touch nothing but darkness.
Sometimes I hear a funny story at work
and say to myself, “She’ll get a kick out of that ...”
then realize you won’t be there when I get home.
I suppose it really doesn’t matter, ‘cause
you never, ever laughed at my jokes ... only at me.rrw 1-4-12 (rewrites o1-25-15)
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