Easily, there is more to tell here
than can even be seen.
A pen in hand, one tucked behind an ear
and three in the recesses of my purse
where they’ll never be found at need;
and still I’d bleed dry of ink
to capture these, the smallest things.

The perfume of peonies,
rather than the look of them,
is what lulls me in the North-facing room .
It’s the heavy scent on a light wind
and a handmade afghan,
more than the weight of the afternoon
that send me off dreaming
hours before I need be.
A lazy sunset wasted
in front of a TV
that’s not even plugged in.
Justin doodled little cockandballs
in the dust on the screen
last time he was by.

And I laugh,
and try to arrest,
try to attest to
this moment.

05/26/2003

Posted on 05/28/2003
Copyright © 2024 Lacy D Phillips