Refit

The walls are empty,

pocked with nail holes,

shadows of pictures―

a room without windows.

Too many years

since the piano was tuned.

Behind the sofa no longer

a good place to hide.

Laughter sleeps like stones

under shroud sheets.

I have forgotten

the dance, the lampshade.

I pull a chamois from my pocket―

not going over Jordan―just spring cleaning.

Dust smells new:  a scent of yellow.

The holes stare with tiny, hammered eyes.

I could use a shovel. 

tk/March 2014

R.A.D. Stainforth breathes a bit of freshness to my words:

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*Lee Plaza Hotel, Detroit, photo by Bonnie Beechler

Yellow House

The Ice Cutters, 1911, Natalia Goncharova

I lie with insomnia,

wishing it was you.

Listen as salt trucks echo

along the river road;

dare to disturb monochrome.

The autumn of me craves

orange marmalade on toast,

breakfast with no conversation,

watching sunflowers

grow into firm-fleshed love children.

I think about Vincent nibbling his paint,

how the taste of his favorite

floated vivid on his tongue,

how he was happiest

in the yellow house.

tk/December 2013


The excellent R.A.D. Stainforth contemplating a yellow house...I hear a cat...

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