Day # 295: Red Skies and a Poem

#295

Red sky at night: as we creep closer to November pink skies.

Things That Mean You To Me

Green plates

cubed cantaloupe

boiling water

in cold kitchens.

Kisses.

Poems that made me think

then shocked me

by showing me

I was feeling.

Please stay tonight.

Please lay down beside me

Your arm over me

Your breath above my head

No snore to speak of.

You’re smart.

Too scared to feel.

The one time you let yourself,

when the kids were little,

and needed you to,

you were bludgeoned

by past love.

Books and books

piled up on tables.
Cigarettes filled the ashtrays
and we fought over stupidity.

Music blaring disco;

the neighborhood complained.

We sat in our cold kitchen

inventing something to roast,

arguing whether

cold or warm water froze faster.

in your kitchen eating

cubed cantaloupe on a wintry day

you admitted to me you knew

early on that you were wrong

but couldn’t tell me so.

I bought you your

own green plates

to have in your own kitchen

when you learned to cook,

adding green peppers to everything.

I hate green peppers.

You had your own kitchen

to cook for young ladies

who you snared with

your music

your poetry

your stories of Charlie Simic and Louise Gluck

and, of course, your kisses.

Last night, so many

years later, you with

a new wife

me, happy with none,

tell me to pick out the

peppers and put on

the kettle for green tea

and listen to you read your poetry on

Maine Public Radio.

I think back 40 years ago

When dancing to disco in our living room

brought the cops.

Neither of us had enough

patience to wait for the water to boil.

Or for our love

to settle

in a space not filled

with pain and anger.

Yet my heart still

skips a beat

thinking of your kiss,

the feel of your

arm upon my ribs,

dead weight, dead asleep

whispering something.

If only I knew what. 

You taught me about

Poetry

Rock music

Dancing in the dark

The unwillingness to use

hot water in ice trays and

kisses that bandage  

leaking hearts.