TWO POEMS
John Surowiecki |
 |
Gienka in Love
She dreams she's in her old flat again
among her milky dime-store figurines
and cobalt-blue bottles and tipsy white
wooden chairs from the Salvation Army.
Her sheets smell of a perfume women
no longer wear, her dishes are mismatched,
her cups stained and cracked, her silver
from every pattern in the catalogue.
She's picked flowers or he's picked them up
at the florist, dyed carnations or closed roses.
She makes him tuna sandwiches, he makes
her eggs; they smoke Luckies on the porch.
Their love is a kind of spirit that never lets
them see its face. Sometimes they think it
will never leave, sometimes they wonder
what it will take one day to bring it back.
CC