Cast iron lamp scavanged
set in the faux wooden barn beams
shellaced a dark tone
Night watches closely the table tableaux
salad bowl of ancient turned wood
stained rich with olive oil
The stereo console...Goo From Sonic Youth
thunders...towering china cabinet filled with
heirloom pieces and modern shines
in the evening din
An old wind up grandfather clock cannot
be heard...a television goes unwatched
in the living room..Lana spins the Wheel
with gusto..
across the back raised parking lot
lie the sleeping cars willing to donate
their sleeping blocks to the new two
doors sporty incarnations awaiting
springs tax return slush funds
The tea sits beneath the knitted
comforter...
a fan still rumbles
dogs curl on the mat in the boot
room and a moon climbs over
the shoppe rooftop
the tangle of the lanes trees to
the lake and winterbound cottage
frame a brilliant winter moon
The double sink is full of steaming
soap and bubbles..the window is
misted at the corners
flourescent tube above the curtian
trim hums quietly
My hands love the warmth of the sink
the brush scrubs the plates of various
design...all the silverware is silver
a rarity even now
as was then
Our hips touch..our glistening hands
exchange plates..bowls...implements
sharpened knives with wooden handle
and bone..roast fork...salad tongs
tea cups from previous noon setting
Her hair a brilliant rouge hangs down
obscuring the long lashes on coffee
iris
pale forearms dig in the froth..am I
washing or rinsing in the hot bath
we switched it up often
taking turns to look up past our
reflections in the window
above the sink to admire the moon
Animated conversation and laughter
from the dinner table...the pause
while the tracks end..and then the
beginning of another on the turntable
we are close enough to smell the cologne
and perfume...the hair conditioner
the smell of smoke and winter on our
clothes...the urgency we once felt
still in the touches..the glances
of flesh....the tender bumping
the moon clears the trees and glitters
on the snow...the corner light hanging
from the extended sitting porch above
the garage shines on the trees and
shrubs..illluminates the old school
house chalkboard still full of drawings
from Autumn on the garage wall beneath
Come summer the oil cloth table and
chairs will be drug out from the storage
the cobblestone patio swept free of
dust leaves...
but it all sleeps under the thick mantle
of snow
I lay awake at nights the radio playing
softly...a book set aside..turn off the
light..the moon gleams in through
the space i admit and leave open
a magic land of intense cold
I can hear their lovemaking if I
feign sleep early....and like always
I am the last person to fall asleep
when the cold seeps in...the furnace
turned low to save oil
I am the last person up
forever skipping breakfest but they
hold a plate for me
In time to help the other tenant
shovel snow as he blows the majority
of it with the house machine
sweep snow from the cars
shuffle them about to clear
it all...
the dogs run to the lake barking
freely and sometimes we all walk
out on the lake
squinting in the sun wearing our
shades and snapping pics on the
thirty five..
1987..thirty years ago...gone by
and lifetimes lived since
all of us are still alive
I could go and visit
we could stand as we did
same kitchen ..same plates..
same winter...
and yet....its easier this way
the moat..the wall...the no mans
land
and yet
last time I visited
she had left her earrings
on the shelf
paperwork and an old
remnant sample perfume
bottle...Coco Chanel
He says she left it for
my shrine
once we were twenty
(she was eighteen)
now we are fifty plus
GOO got replaced
by techno and rap
but not the love
not the pressure
of its insistance
it is there in our
letters we exchange
My pics I take in
black and white
like then and send
The moons still
rise full of mystery
and promise
tinged with that
mindful gap
...
