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The Closing
by Ken HarnischArmoires stained in black
Are a gruesome shade
And not what I think
Ought to be on display
As we leave this place
And its furniture;
For better climes, you say
But I am of the past
And know that one
Man’s better is
A woman’s worst
And my cheering the result
Of a sporting contest came
At the price of your great defeat.
You bite your tongue, as women do
Showing far more courage than
Your tears would indicate. As victor
You believe I should bask among
The spoils while hoping my dance
Doesn’t interrupt the music
Of the new life we hope to make
I am as blind as you, or choose to be
It is our great and lovely lie that we do not talk
Of consequences, but live them
And drag their entrails with us
To all social occasions and parties
Where they are trotted out in
Metaphor and allegory, leaving
Acquaintances to wonder if our patter,
Which crackles like a whip and marks us wits,
Is real or make-believe.
We know, having stained the armoires black
And bloodied cushions on the couch
And having had such riotous times
In every room in this forgotten house
That what is real and what is imagined
Is left to us to define
And we can lock the door knowing
We made such lovely noise
There, and there, and maybe there
But not -no, never not - in bed
Alas, in our bleeping honesty
This is one truth we neglect
To pass on to the new owners
When we turn over the key.
01/05/2009 Posted on 01/06/2009
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch
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