Sixteen years later
he walks down a hallway
counting his steps
out of habit. The polished wooden floor
reflects a comet tail spilling
milky
from a tear drop light
that plumbs the sink, splits
the glassy black slate of night.
He fills
his glass come face to
face with a geezer
framed on black velvet. Parched but too polite
to take the first drink a
toast is proposed
to break the impasse, “To
the ravages
of time”, drawing hands
across lips before
heading for bed, carefully
retracing
his steps in the thin celestial
dust.
she unloads flower flats
from the cozy
hatch of the car bought on
a dizzying
down and trade in of the emblematic
Marquis, aromatic as the
walk in
closet before she
jettisoned vacant
shirts and slacks, amusing
herself briefly
with heady pangs of
recognition real
or imagined, thrilling to
place mismatched
Salvation Army bargain
buys on some
tattooed lummox out for an
evening stroll.
“High time I yank these
muscling junipers”,
buoyant, inhaling lush
perfumed palettes.
