virtuoso
06-06-2014, 04:09 PM
Long ago promissory notes
sealed with pinpricks of blood
now corroding, soiled documents
with a fixed annuity yielding
an aggregate of daily pain
the cycle begins again
the door knob slowly turns
grandfather strikes its seventh chord
you pass without even a glance
sharing nothing of your day
caring nothing about my day
walking past the stove's warming eye
the solitary place setting on the table
throw your lunch pail on the counter
Eight O' Clock shadows course
through the drawn curtains
two still photos slowly develop
me sitting in my easy chair
you slouched down on the sofa
on the opposite side of the room
no salutary greeting to begin the vigil
not even a froward stare to coronate
the beginning of our tireless charade
striding to the TV console
you turn the knob, shatter the stillness
the streaming color effaces our stolid faces
the stirring words skirt our silent lips
the CNN anchors pawn their headlines
followed by pictures of war-torn cities
and crime-ridden neighborhoods
no gasps or retorts from our mouths
we stoically glean the tidings
a mere therapeutic diversion from reality
the divide separating the room and our lives
two blipping shadows flicker off the curtains
until grandfather mercifully strikes the twelfth note
upon which you slowly amble from your perch
pass the pot luck still stewing on the stove
and head alone to the bedroom to undress for bed
a few minutes later I head to the bedroom
change into my thread-bare gown,
a wedding present squaring the twenty years,
and without a benedictory address or superficial caress
slide under the covers turning towards the opposite wall
two dead corpses lie side by side on a cold bed
slipping into the deep darkness of their empty void
sealed with pinpricks of blood
now corroding, soiled documents
with a fixed annuity yielding
an aggregate of daily pain
the cycle begins again
the door knob slowly turns
grandfather strikes its seventh chord
you pass without even a glance
sharing nothing of your day
caring nothing about my day
walking past the stove's warming eye
the solitary place setting on the table
throw your lunch pail on the counter
Eight O' Clock shadows course
through the drawn curtains
two still photos slowly develop
me sitting in my easy chair
you slouched down on the sofa
on the opposite side of the room
no salutary greeting to begin the vigil
not even a froward stare to coronate
the beginning of our tireless charade
striding to the TV console
you turn the knob, shatter the stillness
the streaming color effaces our stolid faces
the stirring words skirt our silent lips
the CNN anchors pawn their headlines
followed by pictures of war-torn cities
and crime-ridden neighborhoods
no gasps or retorts from our mouths
we stoically glean the tidings
a mere therapeutic diversion from reality
the divide separating the room and our lives
two blipping shadows flicker off the curtains
until grandfather mercifully strikes the twelfth note
upon which you slowly amble from your perch
pass the pot luck still stewing on the stove
and head alone to the bedroom to undress for bed
a few minutes later I head to the bedroom
change into my thread-bare gown,
a wedding present squaring the twenty years,
and without a benedictory address or superficial caress
slide under the covers turning towards the opposite wall
two dead corpses lie side by side on a cold bed
slipping into the deep darkness of their empty void