Sunday, October 22, 2006

Without Looking

Across the kitchen table her dyed black hair
shines over my natural red
She does not see the light in my eyes, looking down
Forgetting the un-done
dishes, the cell phone arguments at midnight
I feel the old, familiar
thumping of similar hearts
She doesn’t know, I don’t say
Washed clean
are the ragged wounds of teen nights
Sleepless and pacing then with
imagination on fire
Jolting me from routine, snagging my medicated passages
I remember holding her up to see the monkeys at the zoo
Her little body
like the melted butter of love
Dropping her off at school and watching her
coltish strides away from me
Away from me it has been for years now
drives away now from the sunken hull of my youth
Down the hills to a world I
will never know
I ache for the smell of stale quesadillas, the wadded paper
lunch bag thrown in my back seat
I pass her money and muttered complaints
She ignores almost all of it
I hardly notice her thankful eyes, looking
That little calf look that endures
Our cats are the bridge
of what is left of our days together
When we drove over the hills to Ventura
Calling out the Christmas lights and laughing.Posted by Picasa


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