October

Those brisk October mornings,
I loved the way youd stroll the hardwood floors,
Half nude and carefree,
While I lay in bed, not quite rekindled,
Not wanting to play dress-up,
Not ready for adulthood.

Sunlight streamed through every pane,
Spilled over the kitchen,
Catching the dust kicked up from your high-heels,
The red ones you wore,
To complement my over-sized bathrobe,
That swept the floor like a cape.

Madness is beauty, I think.
How your autumn-colored irises shone
Between thick smeared rings of mascara.
The way youd line dance the hallways,
To beat up country songs that swarmed
Out miniature apartment with rustic comfort.

Youd sit balcony-side,
Letting small rings of tea aroma,
Facelift the morning.
And you would tell me about your dreams,
About the ones from which you have not woken.
And I would ask myself if insanity was beauty.

Youd count the freckles on my back,
While I made guestimates about the expiration date of an OJ carton.
This is the way we said we were,
Simple and sophisticated.
I drank it anyways,
And you told me moles counted for three.

Wed loiter the sun and shadow speckled apartment for some time,
Before crawling back into our two mattress escape,
Not even hesitating to think about life outside these blinds,
Not on this brisk October morning.
Perhaps tomorrow, if and when tomorrow ever comes.




Poetry by Shawn Monahan
Read 559 times
Written on 2008-02-01 at 19:37

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