Monday, March 30, 2015

Christmas Lights

Strung up through the telephone
My love like Christmas lights
Still twinkles
Left parading a memory
For too long
Days coalescing together
A plastic cord
Rests between my fingers
Waits for sight to fill
The vapid air, tense
With the desire to quell
Any disaster
With paintbrush and toothpaste
As if the mantra of the symbolic
And the routine
Could have kept us safe
We shattered
Though we mimed a good
Forty thousand memories
I watched
As my words froze and sharp
To dust
Now the pages flip themselves
Clatter in a rush of finality
The end signaled
By the blunt
Wielding of a dial tone.