dirty laundry
you don't bother taking down because everyone's already seen it
making the private public came into vogue and now
our pasts float around in cyberspace
maybe it would have been easier if I left those stained
shirts and bleached jeans and lacy unmentionables
waving in the wind, anchored down by clothespins
starched dry by the summer heat
visible to anyone who wanted to see
it took some time but
I realized your every step was the love song I so
wanted to hear again
the small acts of kindness your melody
the warmth of your whistle your calloused fingers
your tilted head your strum
the love letter you'd never write was
etched into the end-of-the-day smiles
and the clinking forks competing for cantaloupe
it's up to me to write my own poem
feels like buying my own valentine
but we never believed too much in that holiday
and I don't like chocolate anymore anyway
I found a card I thought you'd like
and it didn't make you laugh the way I did
the way my parents can never hear without
scolding this unladylike lady
barely cracked a smile
and I take a deep breath and remind myself
that writing burns
and a song dies the last time anyone hums it
No comments:
Post a Comment