Tuesday, January 3, 2012

if—pining (my three-legged-table life)

if—pining (my three-legged-table life)

if this were an ideal world—
not ideal, just undisturbed, balanced—

where my words wouldn’t
overturn my three-legged-table life
knocking everything—every thing
onto a tiled floor—
spilled, broken, irreparable, irrecoverable—

fine delicate cups and plates—
this life of mine—
filled with scalding coffee
and food that spoils in the heat—

if this were a balanced world
then i would say to you—
just before kissing the curve of your neck
just before pulling you to me
my hand on the small of your back—
i would say to you:

satin sheets have nothing on you—
not warmth or lure or pleasure or comfort—
absolutely nothing on you—
except the freedom from my pining
my fruitless inexpressible

but it is my three-legged-table life
with settings arranged, the food served

so i offer instead my incomplete wordless apologies
and the softest place at the center of me
where you can lie without disturbing
this high-wire act by an essentially clumsy man

the sorry is retroactive and preemptive
no ifs

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