Blackamoor

    Breaking up -
    as in the cloissoné jar you dropped. . .
    little regard,
    a few brittle pieces scattered about the floor.
    Let's call it "shedding feelings". Expensive?
    There's always another humidor tucked away in
    the cranny of another antique shop; after all,
    a woman is only a woman
    although a fine, Cuban import
    is a worthy smoke.

    "What this country needs is a good 5¢ cigar".
    Panatellas?
    He might have added tight-fitting, long lasting.

    Nooks & crannies.
    Little things, your ways. Fruit fly (perhaps damsel wing)
    as symbol of perishability. My emblematic coat of arms.
    No season of regrets, rather
    snatch of minutes, the oasis span of a single candle.

    Who knows?
    The sun nudging petals
    at the close of another day.
    Your eyelids casting shrouds (and shadows),
    the long funeral walk of your hair across the pillow.
    Then awakening. You gathering tresses much as a bird trilling
    feathers.
    Clandestine, these
    rendez-vous' Clementines.

    Air of mystery and melancholy street,
    the moon up & poking
    holes in my argument.
    Tedious fingers,
    no account
    matter of factness
    lasting eternities.

    Imagine, you & this moon,
    dowagers together crotchety,
    decades hence, making tea.
    Curls of black leaves, grumbling.

    Blackamoor and sadness,
    cult king of empty
    transforming the bright & ruddy
    complexion into barely honourable dishwater.

    You can ask what this means.
    A cough. Twirl of spoon
    in a cup, deafening answers.

    I prefer the lonely
    wine bottle,
    egret in flight & motion,
    retaining dignity across
    a crumpled, brown bag.
    Listless, linoleum floor.