Saturday, November 16, 2013

Dinner at Midnight

He asked me if I’d love before
so stirring stew beneath my nose,
I pondered wandered through
evicted rooms and ghosts of smoke.

Thinking...fanatic certainty at one time.
Perhaps several. Twice? Once?
Or maybe just infatuated
with lust, or a crush, flings and flirts
fumbling baubles, dangling buttons
kisses that lose luster
over measured stanzas they muster.

The curry brew wretched,
an odious blur to my sense
as the spoon kept turning
looking for answers at the ocean's floor.

And in the silver ashes,
a few vague candidates appear,
faded from an inferno
Who I could have, would have...
had the timing, reason and season
been in alignment with my horoscope
with my work schedule
with my location or vocation and
other...others, I looked at his inquiry.
with sad and tired eyes. 

Here we sit at this vector in time
sharing food. Laughing, smiling, entangled hands
underneath the tablecloth
along with melancholia and
history’s fumbling fingers
dancing on my knee. 

Have I ever loved really meant
do I love you now?
No. Not in the least. 

And you do not love me,
which is what makes dinner
so nice and frivolous,
which is what makes my stew
so cold and noxious.
which is what makes my heart
so still.
which is what makes this affair
like a bookmark: holding a place
in between the pages.

Have I ever loved meant
did I love you then?
I’d be lying if I said yes.
With sorrowful eyes I glanced
across the table and squeezed
his hand. 

Have I ever loved meant
would I love again?
I am...
turning the stew again and again.
raising up a rolling red mist
as the spoon turns again and again,
fanning the vermillion clouds
veiling my smirking lips,
turning a dark night into a scarlet noon
I nod slowly as I stare at a horizon
turning again and again, again and again,
again and again.

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