by Jay Davenport
Half thinking, I hope for you to greet me
at the door like you have so many times
before, but I wait and am unmet.
I put my workthings down next to the door
so I can find them on the morrow, if
I decide that they need to be found.
Before me lies all that you have left me.
The towel on your favorite corner
of the couch has the faint scent of that which
was once, but will never be once again.
The table in front of the couch, long the
place of your preferred toy of amusement,
lies barren, cool to the touch, and unused.
Everything is a reminder of you,
of us, of our long attempt to build a
life that seemed to come up just short.
I collapse on the couch and a torrent
of tears springs anew, a relative of
that which I unleashed last night in your arms.
For the first time in five years, I am alone.
Posted on 11/29/2007
Copyright © 2021 Jay Davenport
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 11/29/07 at 06:14 AM|
I know the feeling, and you definitely did a good job in pushing it to the forefront of my mind.
|Posted by Mary Frances Spencer on 11/29/07 at 06:54 AM|
I've been here too! MFS
|Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 03/25/15 at 10:32 AM|
I simply love that next to last stanza. It always puzzled me, this notion that tears are not permitted to be shed by men, given it makes them less than manly. I always thought it was the other way around, that you are a sissy if you can't shed tears, particularly over a lost love.