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Samantha’s Daily Poem

July 28, 2011

Devoid of wit



An effect
almost an allergy
in her presence
I am rendered
devoid
of wit.
She is not
the only one
some people drain
my thoughts
I mumble and clunk
I am dim
I slosh around my brain
and find there is nothing
to say.
You are not
like that.
I see your name light up
my call display
and I am
returned
to vigour.
I am chasing my ego
perhaps
but sometimes we need to run
to remember
the rush
of being alive.

July 27, 2011

Treasures



He clutches the bookmark
a set of keys
the old remote control
my mom found
at the recycling depot

teaching me

it is possible
to cherish
everything.

July 26, 2011

The desk



The desk
a snarl of items
books
paper
the shame
of dirty plates
each one
a story
a decision
together they are
a hulking body
of debris.

She is frozen
limp
the objects
so daunting
like an orphanage
of abandoned faces.

The evening is quiet
husband away
baby asleep
if only the mess
wasn’t so distracting
how is it that lifeless
things make such
a racket?

A moment of bluster
she yanks a magazine
from the edge of the pile
five months old
one of those literary kind
you hope people will catch
you reading
she opens it to confirm
what she knows is true
it will not change her life
it must go.

She feels galvanized
radiant, even.

She will conquer
the mountain.

She is clearly
on a roll.

It is late
when she closes
the magazine
tea cup empty
but still warm.
It has been so long
since she read a magazine
cover to cover.
She looks at the thicket
that litters the desk
it looks bigger
and she waits for the clench
of regret
but all she feels
is the deep satisfaction
of her small
private
rebellion.

July 25, 2011

I want to spend you wisely



When you are not here
the idea of you sits
inside me
like a warm mug of tea
barricaded by my ribs
comforting
breakable
ache.

I want to spend you
wisely
want you
to last.

That we don’t live
forever
heavy block of solid truth
I avert my mind
it can’t be
it is too
unkind.

July 24, 2011

House for sale



House for sale
sold already
pile of old bookshelves
free
in the lane
the previous owner
sorting through the garage
the final nest
of belongings
(a spider’s paradise)
he looks as though
he is always dusty
a man not known
for his oral hygiene
my husband asks a question
that lands us in the house
for an enthustiastic tour
empty
rotting
rooms
a tear-down, he says
not sadly
oddly proud
of the tired sag of the walls
stained ceiling
crusty stove
as though he doesn’t see
an old house
but the wife
he met 40 years ago
gone now
and all he can smell
in the decay
is a memory of
fresh
honey
skin.

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