parlay

For the two of you, then, and whomever else is interested - here's a poem that developed over the course of the past few months and is, if I might say so, not bad. As much as I dislike free verse as a general rule, this works well in an open form. Alas.

And autobiographical? Ah, well. So scold me.



Domesticity

Stubby blue carpet prickles
As she watches him
Arch his toes
To drag them against
The back of his calf.

Hand in hers,
Their fingers nestle
Together without thought
Or feeling, her skin numb
To a touch she had once
Hurried through days
In order to feel.

He says "I have a grant
to do research in Boston
And I'd like if you'd join me
As soon as my wife leaves."

She glances at his
Still scratching toes,
Turns her face towards his
And nods, equality
Of height enabled by
Their side-by-side seats
On his office floor.

She thinks of how hard
It will be to get the time off,
To make excuses
And buy plane tickets
In order to spend a week
In another small room
While he thumbs through books
And makes the same tired gestures.