Delta40
07-03-2011, 07:20 PM
I wheeze myself awake to a steaming cup of black coffee.
The night at your door has drenched me with dew
yet once again, my grubby patchwork quilt magically appears.
I welcome the bitter taste between gulps of cold breath on the creaking verandah seat.
We don't talk and spend the day enmeshed in domestic routine.
I chop wood, mend the gate, relishing familiar smells from your woodstove.
Evening is greeted with greasy oil lamps on the sill.
Hearth glow masks the secret abuses which dance like ghosts.
While I eat gristled stew, I am swallowed up by my fiery past,
till my spirit crumples like the quilt I spent a childhood hiding under.
You roughly scrub the truth from my clothes as if it were a kindness,
careful not to burn your fingers in the Walton's copper.
It's your way of telling me to hit the road again.
I want to stay here and find my place with you,
but your voice is as harsh as your overworked hands.
You ain't got none!
I watch you wind every drop of hope through the wringer
till there is nothing left to keep me here.
The last of the apple pie has been gobbled up anyway
and you grunt that I better take the quilt with me.
Lord knows it's no good to me now.
I cough up brown phlegm just to prove you right.
You usher me through the gate and flee inside, leaving me on the street,
the warm package in my rucksack my token comfort.
You know it won't be till dawn when I discover the handwritten scripture,
wedged somewhere between homemade memories and abject poverty.
My teardrops stain the spidery lines your love has taught me so well.
But the needy will not always be forgotten,
nor the hope of the afflicted ever perish. Psalm 9:18
The night at your door has drenched me with dew
yet once again, my grubby patchwork quilt magically appears.
I welcome the bitter taste between gulps of cold breath on the creaking verandah seat.
We don't talk and spend the day enmeshed in domestic routine.
I chop wood, mend the gate, relishing familiar smells from your woodstove.
Evening is greeted with greasy oil lamps on the sill.
Hearth glow masks the secret abuses which dance like ghosts.
While I eat gristled stew, I am swallowed up by my fiery past,
till my spirit crumples like the quilt I spent a childhood hiding under.
You roughly scrub the truth from my clothes as if it were a kindness,
careful not to burn your fingers in the Walton's copper.
It's your way of telling me to hit the road again.
I want to stay here and find my place with you,
but your voice is as harsh as your overworked hands.
You ain't got none!
I watch you wind every drop of hope through the wringer
till there is nothing left to keep me here.
The last of the apple pie has been gobbled up anyway
and you grunt that I better take the quilt with me.
Lord knows it's no good to me now.
I cough up brown phlegm just to prove you right.
You usher me through the gate and flee inside, leaving me on the street,
the warm package in my rucksack my token comfort.
You know it won't be till dawn when I discover the handwritten scripture,
wedged somewhere between homemade memories and abject poverty.
My teardrops stain the spidery lines your love has taught me so well.
But the needy will not always be forgotten,
nor the hope of the afflicted ever perish. Psalm 9:18