Presence
National Poetry Month/Poem a Day
Occasional evenings apart
Having the couch to yourself
Cooking foods you like
But she doesn’t
Meatloaf or fideo
Watching the stupid action show
She doesn’t care for
Cranking Yes while cooking
Although it defies imagination
She doesn’t like
Early Seventies prog rock
Spend some time in the wood shop
Don’t do the dishes
A temporary illusion
Of being unincumbered
Of living for yourself
Of a freedom you don’t really want
You even get the whole bed to yourself
Which sucks
Go to bed, alone,
You wind up sleeping
On your side anyway
Fluff her pillow
Place it where she sleeps
Pressing against you
Hard to get to sleep
Not because she’s not in bed
But because she’s not there
Waken at two am
Reach for her
Get a lumpy pillow instead
Thank God
She gets back
Tomorrow
About the Creator
Chuck Etheridge
Novelist, Teacher, Transplanted West Texan, Reluctant Poet
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Spectating
I can't imagine dying like this, in a place like this; on a cold, dirty pavement with rush hour traffic screaming by and a crowd looking on while paramedics struggle to find space to move. Who could? Deep down we all think there should be a reason, a moment of clarity... or a family presence, at least. For this man, this boy, the rail thin woman lighting a cigarette in a faux fur jacket will have to do - she's been here since the start, her eyes tracking the movement of my shoulders as we fight to keep him on the right side of the line.
By S. A. Crawford7 days ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
Aww, how sweet. I love how gracefully you’ve captured that sense of freedom and a hinhing longing of a life partner’s trip away.
I like this...and may I ask an important question: which Yes album? ;)