LONELY IN MAPLEWOOD.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A MAN LOOKS BACK ON HIS LIFE WITH HIS LATE WIFE.

Submitted: August 24, 2010

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Submitted: August 24, 2010

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Maplewood. You sit on the bench
Quite alone. Belle would have sat
With you here once, viewing beside

You the selfsame scene: the grass,
The trees, all kinds of green, the cars
Parked like ships in port all beneath
A dull grey sky. She’d have spoken,

She always did, let slide the words
Down their slippery slope of conversation,
Dragging in each topic in turn like some

Wayward child, bring up things you’d
Forgotten, matters your mind had chewed
On and spat out long ago. She would have said
About the dullness of sky, the greenness

Of trees and grass, while you’d be watching
The passing girls with their swinging hips
And fine ass. She’s gone now, taken off in

Such a manner by death, that even now it
Seems unreal like some Salvador painting
Viewed at dusk. You sit and wonder what
She’d have made of the changes in curtains

And carpets and pictures on the walls of
The old house since her demise. She’d not
Have liked the curtains; too bright and they

Don’t match, she’d have said, and the carpets,
God, man, bright red? You smile imaging
Her speak so. You miss her, even the chatter
And long conversations, the dull talk and

The nagging whine and the way she looked
On things and the way she sneaked up on
You, kissed on your neck, and put her arms

Around your waist. It makes you think now,
Take each day as it comes, enjoy that one
Moment, that memory sealed, that last kiss,
That final word, concluding death and deep.

You sit and think and wait for some kind of
Reunion in eternal paradise or perpetual sleep.


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