...Because Richard Poor misses my poetry.

The Future, Unburdened

The white poinsettia withers
on the sideboard
in its supermarket pot.
Someone has thoughtfully peeled
the vulgar green foil paper back, and in doing so,
exposed pale and miserly stems.

The plant wants disposing;

its dropping petals beg for it,
but no more could I throw away
this flowered vestige of Christmas
than the grade school manila clowns and painted turkey hands
that clutter the attic in bulging boxes.
The floorboards sag dangerously under the weight
of baseball cards, pink tea cups, and the ghosts of prayers chanted before tuck-in. The weight I feel the most,
the weight I fear the most
is that of my wedding band.
An unlucky charm, it hides in a cough drop tin
on the top shelf, deep
in the china closet.

I feel it, and it is a mighty weight.

Perhaps I'll nurse the poinsettia until spring.
I could dig a hole then, put the plant in the garden
where it will surely die.I could toss the ring in the hole first;

the poinsettia can serve as its headstone.

 

© 2007