07-21-2014, 04:11 AM
Cold Stew
Cold Stew
Her reading light is on
when he returns home at night
to cold stew waiting at the dining table.
Like a recently scolded beagle,
he eats his neglected dinner alone,
graceless slurping and shuffling loafers
are heard in their bedroom.
What he doesn’t tell her;
what she might prefer to keep from herself
is scribbled on a bar receipt in his back pocket,
marked by the foreign scent on his neck.
Another long day at the firm, honey.
She turns off her reading light
and lays down at his side,
imagining scenarios in which they are lovers
to the tune of his violent snoring.
*Here's the haiku I wrote that became this short poem.
"Her light is still on
when he returns home at night
to cold stew longing."
Cold Stew
Her reading light is on
when he returns home at night
to cold stew waiting at the dining table.
Like a recently scolded beagle,
he eats his neglected dinner alone,
graceless slurping and shuffling loafers
are heard in their bedroom.
What he doesn’t tell her;
what she might prefer to keep from herself
is scribbled on a bar receipt in his back pocket,
marked by the foreign scent on his neck.
Another long day at the firm, honey.
She turns off her reading light
and lays down at his side,
imagining scenarios in which they are lovers
to the tune of his violent snoring.
*Here's the haiku I wrote that became this short poem.
"Her light is still on
when he returns home at night
to cold stew longing."