With Egret Feathers in My Apology
Maurice Oliver
Dear Samantha,
Please forgive me for eating your marshmallow pie. Since
you’ve been gone, my shoehorn hides under the bed and
my yo-yo hangs limp down its string. Looking glass porters.
Walrus tusk raining. A cold wind that howls through my typo
without a handkerchief. And the sound of someone snoring.
I no longer believe in the power of court jesters as the ghost
of Christmas past insists on buttered bread. I only use
margarine and never wrap my fish in newspaper. But you
know all that. You know all there is to know about my heel
spurs and my talking horse in the barn. I guess I’m trying to
say that my haystack is lonely. No blue lagoon. No palms
swaying in a tropical breeze. No peaches and creme. This is
how my linoleum floor feels. In small leather bound volumes,
with nothing to suck on but the Venetian blinds. With the lid
firmly placed on the trashcan. Come join me, and we can pile
leafy green vegetables onto our plates of carefree embroidery.
�
|
