Saturday, March 29, 2008


My mind remembers useless things:
the next plate in the stack is the clear glass kind,
one of two, the other on floor, with half-eaten
canned cat food on a place-mat, stained with
things I've eaten, also on the floor,
where I prefer to be, where I am now.

These plates are from my union, as are
the next ones in rotation, orange, ironstone-type and
stamped with a brown, semi-oriental flower.

The others are white and fluted, now
cracked with leaden-colored pre-shatters;
we measure our time together by all
the dishes we have lost.

Mine came from an Illinois-antique
shopping trip with my mom, and his
from his own, earlier existence, the sixties.

No wedding shower was our request:
the nature of our self, since I admit
we were one before the flawed ceremonial,
seeks to conserve against certain pain,
lidding bowl with sturdy plate
for refrigeration of leftovers.

My mind remembers useless things:
I don't need to look in the dark cabinet
to know I have my hand on it and we agree
on more than we admit.

1 comment:

hearmysong said...

i love poetic t.

useless things are the ones that clutter up the mind at 2 a.m. too. i'm with you.

hopefully we can talk tomorrow???