An unbroken blue-brown gaze
brightening
a dimly lit winter’s day—
spellbound, perplexed,
or simply intrigued—
as caustic wit,
Offset
by caustic wit,
joy-twisted still-frosted cheeks
into Cabernet-toothed smiles
where the paint-chipped Ceilings
and Mezzanines agree.
Shadow figures, braving sleet,
paraded past our ice-glazed windows,
ignored.
Maneless faces shimmered the tea-light’s gloom
as Xennial plight hovered hauntingly overhead,
begging attention.
It was a regular Salem ghost story, I suppose—
all past and no future—
that which impacts the present:
“Enchanté.”
Slow-cooked food cooled quickly—
the best meal is great conversation—
and the tab was couponed by history.
Outdoors:
slush-tired vehicles
traveled in intervals
both melodic and predictable;
our dovetailed forms sauntered carelessly
through snow-mounds six feet deep.
Thrift shop magnet sales—
Pumpkins in January—
purchased as momentos
of the prelude,
Happily Imitated.
Atlantic’s cool breath
whistled ceaselessly
through leaflessness.
But warmth was:
An Embered Embrace,
a nod of understanding,
a silent cemetery tale,
a puff of cigar smoke
imitating the sky.
And in the Commons,
under hanging white lights,
upon frozen pathways,
after the sun’s
low-lit sheathing,
I knew
the joy of a first performance.
Photo Credit: jaramillo.andream Flickr via Compfight cc
