A Table Set for Five
Notices from the delivery driver
that we have now been avoiding for years
have gone unnoticed.
They are piled up by and tagged to our front door.
And still our past has found a way to disgustingly
cling to us.
A table set for five overwhelms me
and I excuse myself
to drink alone out on the patio.
“There are nights where sometimes I almost miss you,”
you tell me as I leave and to which
I have no response.
In their monolithic eyes I can see how even the children
have rejected me.
The liquor does not burn any more.
I light a cigarette and look around
for secrets that are not there.
A garden with flowers and wind and sun and moon and stars
and circles and circles and
my stomach hurts
and my head is sharp and feverish
and there was delight
and no matter and matter.
One time as a little boy I think there was a dream.
This dream may have had a name
but so too may the leaves
and the grains of sand.
She may have been lovely or hideous.
Living or dead.
Or maybe not have existed at all.
You asked me for a meaning once and
I handed you a bullet from our bureau drawer.
Inside I can see you at the table
the children’s lives.
Shades of heaven change hues
and in between us
that are just out of reach.
Springtime is in the air
fragrant and true.
It melts in the ice and dilutes my gin.