Our Work In Progress

You wore black to my funeral

And so, with closed wide-eyes turned out,

I stared at the bent backs

and cataracts, without a sound.


Days, weeks, years

went by, before I laid on your bed

with closed wide-eyes turned in.

We stared through the music filled air,

the broken filaments, rotting fruit.

Old oatmeal clinging to

unwashed dishes.

“Whose turn was it, again?”

You couldn’t hear me.

Our cut cuticles and tired joints built this home.


Infertile, we filled the room

with your language.

My crimson mouth produced a sharp accent,

unable to cut away

the disappointment.

So, we listened through the tension,

straining our ears.


A tribute to Armstrong played

—Pah, Doo, Bee, Wah, Wah, Babe.

You pulled me up, spinning me

into the rotating shadow of the ceiling fan

—thwap-a-tack-a, thwap-a-tack-a.

The stifling room wrapped itself around the brain.

“Oh, oh. Enough. Enough!”


I wore black to my funeral.

Pearled collar, hiding loose threads.

And so, together, we walked back through

the avenues, offices, and homes.

Dreaming of, dancing with, working on

our existence.


All Images via Google Images

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