Last week I posted pieces that were along the lines of what I consider my usual style of poetry, this week I thought I'd share pieces on the other end of the spectrum, at least for me. I went through a couple phases where I wanted to write pieces that were in sharper focus than what I usual wrote, so I experimented a bit. Compared to last weeks poems I think these are very different in style, but the reader can still take away from it what they wish.
Routine
Glasses clink,
plates are filled,
footsteps whisper across floors
or stomp down heavily from above.
Words flat and un-reaching
fall out disgruntled
onto smeared napkins
and worn knuckles
that grasp at silver
all too tightly,
and work mechanically
to lift and lower.
Eyes never meet,
only pieces are ever heard,
stark white walls
lack twenty years of flavor.
Chairs are pushed back,
plates are washed,
ripened bellies whisper or stomp,
a breath is finally released.
Un-sung Elegy
Standing in the doorway,
he watches her as
she prepares dinner.
The soft muscles in her arms
straining ever so slightly
as she brings the knife
up and down in a familiar rhythm.
To him her shoulders are
a little more relaxed
Than what his hands used to know,
as though some seven year burden
has been biding its time there.
The hand that stirs is steady,
and full of purpose.
Purpose that will end
once the spoon is laid down.
Those hands used to draw
maps across his skin,
as did the lips that pucker
for a small taste
before they hide away again.
And the feet that slide over to the stove
have a slower pace than the ones
that used to slide across dance floors
and foreign sidewalks.
He loosens his tie,
and clears his throat,
and she turns to him with that tired smile,
the one that long erased all memory
of any other,
and says, dinner will be ready soon,
before she turns her back again.
He nods to her silence,
and walks away.
Hi my love, I missed you today,
stayed just on the edge of his tongue.
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