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The Summer Convention in New York
by
Penelope Doyle |
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At first she found herself unable to move, desiring absolutely nothing,
Utterly happy for lost hours of no voices reminding and sniping,
No rules, no shelf where each dish should have been,
no right utensil to remain undamaged on the correct surface,
to be precisely used and exactly returned where the imprint
of its unsolicited ghost carefully waited.
Aluminum foil should not be used on anything to cause bolting dismay,
or the eternal loss of important seconds of retribution;
Nothing fat and ugly in her reflection,
When nothing was in its place in his absence, no disappointment
that the little etched egg spoon was not where it was put in the September of 2001.
She kissed sleeping dog snouts, willowed from room to room
Into the spots of ovenly sun that glowed behind the sensible curtains,
ate a grape and then a fat, yellow cherry, unbalanced, pits running free, one after the other,
then swept all the dirt in dusty crumbles down the stairs to his office where it would languish
unnoticed for weeks, unclaimed in his self-imposed, hamster-wheel busy.
All the caps flipped off around her, the hours became a lenticular space,
Free-hand carved by the irony of unstructured footsteps taken in a chosen prison
and later, on carpets that had been vacuumed incorrectly,
she danced in ellipses and wrong turns to her own perfect beat
And, without permission, touched her tongue to the lip of a cup with no handle,
And slowly sipped from the illegal, glorious wine of the enemy.
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--Submitted by penelope1947 on 2011-07-05.
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