The Large Saucepan Told Me.
I thoroughed the fridge,The cupboards, the shelves:
Noting all of the needs
As though we were ourselves.
The routine was the importance
Of that Saturday:
That first time after you'd been no-longer there –
The nothing-else-seemed-to-matter day.
The usuals were added
In the order that I would find them
In the supermarket.
The packets in front and the ones behind them
Were accountant accounted for
And penned onto the list
As I drove on
In mine and the kitchen's mist.
The efficient tour of the shop
Allowed no deviation for the eyes –
No possibility that your discipline
Would wonder into surprise:
Even without you,
The rules applied;
Nothing halted the march –
The fact that you'd died
Changed nothing about the list;
Tattooed and ingrained,
There was no change, there could be no change
To the inbrained.
Unpacking the bags' contents
And precisely placed
Into allotted slots,
They followed the list that could not be defaced
And joined the past and present
Army of obeyors;
Their acceptance of their allotted lot
Sending accepting prayers
To the one
Who's loss
Hadn't ended the position
Of boss.
The first meal that I made
From this single shop
Was twice as much as I needed
And made me stop;
I realised that you would not be joining me
At the table
And that I
Would not be able
To eat yours
As well as mine:
Nothing was right anymore –
Nothing fine.
The dustbin ate your share
And, in a different kind of mist,
It was fed a dry dessert:
That shopping list.
13:05, Mon. 18/02/2013.
Poetry by Mark J. Wood
Read 1003 times
Written on 2013-03-29 at 10:55
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