Sunday, October 26, 2008

Bittersweet Heat

He awoke me those mornings
If only to say, “It’s hot in here.”
Those mornings he drank black coffee
At a broken wooden picnic table
And woke me those mornings
To whine about how his tummy ached
How his head hurt the night before
He was eating ice cream, it was cold,
Orange flavored and the ends tasted like wood
The sun was too bright, it hurt his eyes
He groans about the customers
Grouses about his feet, his back
Tells me, “A woman just masturbated in the bathroom”
All I had were those mornings
The gripes of the sun rising
All I had of the nighttime was a picture
Of his beaten, bloody, lip

I told him one of those mornings that I loved the heat
And I liked to walk shoeless along the sidewalk
Watching my reflection as I went to work
And I bought two hard French rolls
To crack open and eat the gooey insides
Black coffee was too strong and I bought
Steamed milk and vanilla, barely tainted brown
He replied “It’s too hot in here.”

1 comment:

Colin Welch said...

I really like the way you use imagery in this piece, both to contrast and to create the feeling of the air, rather than the smell, or the taste.