The Sick Room
(I thought this one should be archived-- it's still one of my favorites.)
The weekend slips loosely
through damp fingers,
relearning the strength
to grasp a pen;
trading, instead, the task
of holding down a cough.
I cried and my mother came.
Jell-O never tasted so cold and clean.
Wednesday’s roses hang upside-down
from a string stretched across
the living room window.
A letter lies unfinished
on the ottoman-
a study in convalescent handwriting.
Who will shovel the snow from the drive
once the Alabama breeze lifts him away?
No need
for forgotten poems
excavated by compilation;
sent away on Matisse postcards
stained by five years
of straight-pens, held to bedroom walls
of girlhood collages.
No need
for postage stamps and return addresses
memorized by now, I’m sure.
For when the car door slams
-finite and monumental-
two hands will reach for matching keys
to the same home.
In a fevered dream you came early for me.
-KEA
2-18-01
The weekend slips loosely
through damp fingers,
relearning the strength
to grasp a pen;
trading, instead, the task
of holding down a cough.
I cried and my mother came.
Jell-O never tasted so cold and clean.
Wednesday’s roses hang upside-down
from a string stretched across
the living room window.
A letter lies unfinished
on the ottoman-
a study in convalescent handwriting.
Who will shovel the snow from the drive
once the Alabama breeze lifts him away?
No need
for forgotten poems
excavated by compilation;
sent away on Matisse postcards
stained by five years
of straight-pens, held to bedroom walls
of girlhood collages.
No need
for postage stamps and return addresses
memorized by now, I’m sure.
For when the car door slams
-finite and monumental-
two hands will reach for matching keys
to the same home.
In a fevered dream you came early for me.
-KEA
2-18-01