game of thrones
Wednesday, December 28, 2011 8:20:am | History

Midnight or Their About's

It's only 1:00 pm
on the back porch,
sadness fall with his mood
and the wood chips he whittles
still, he whittles
that peach branch
until it smooth, brand new
sitting barefoot
on cold tractor seat stool
his poppy made a long time ago
thankfully lonesome, again

Billy holiday whispers
a sad song on an old 45
playing over and over again
filtering in from
the living room
his eyes follow
the wind outside
he moves
to the music
and swaying trees
remembering the first time
he heard that song
In the French Quarter
from his youth

He watchs the wood chips
float and swirl through
the ash gray plank
of the decking
'see how the shaving
spin like a top'


he folds up his knife
to retire in his room
to write poetry
and sleep
she knocks,
respectfully to join him
in his dreams
is that wrong?
he can't say,
this whole thing
might not be what she
signed up for, or will she?


the room's quiet as a stone
a mausoleum
but for Billie Holiday
slowly seeping in


I think maybe,
you're going to be the one
that saves me.


he sleeps,
out of words
but understanding,
his gaze betrays
his conviction
not to think of
the woman
who is real,
who latently
longs for his affection
when he most
needs the truth

outside the
wood chips dance
in the yawn,
but she is dancing
in his dreams.
CMH