I could be wrong
But it seems to me
They change the tablecloths
A lot quicker than they used to
Around this place. October’s gold
Is now November’s brown;
Can December’s gray be that far behind?

I would wish it so, if only to hold
On one more time to the memory of
You. Remember how we’d lay in
Shaved cornfields with only the
Wind as company? You would whisper
In my hair as my palm fetched your breast
And my lips touched the scarlet of your own;
You would sigh, pretending surrender
And then assault me as sweetly
As I ever contemplated you and
We laughed, wondering who was predator
And who was prey.

Speaking of that, we would
Bend our knees sometimes;
Prey to a mystical lyricism
We could not see and doubted
Was even there until we asked
It plaintively to forgive our
Multitude of sins.

It was scary to think some higher
Power guided our destinies
While sure as hell believing
We were victims to uncharted chaos
And anarchy no one contrived
In any shaman’s book.

It didn’t matter. Our god
And goddess was love, as
Pure as it ever gets, as free
Of toxins as this poisoned world
Has ever known. That we were
Not alone only convinced us of
Its holiness, until it was no more.

I do not know what life is
For, nor do I suspect the answer
Is in those gilt-edged pages. We
Are no longer, and both
Have traveled on to quieter realms
Where the color of tablecloths
Is of supreme import to us both.

But they do seem to change
More frequently, don’t you think?

11/24/2011

Posted on 11/24/2011
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch