DEARY

so I used to worship

at the shrine of your bedroom

once when I was young


and you were older in mendacity...

black nylons over the bed post

the garter belts black and tight


the stays grazing the smooth fleshy hips...

at that age that's all I wanted and needed...


and now I know I am staring into the middle distance

on some soggy late summer evening

remembering for as fleeting second


the perfumed thighs and the white glowing flesh

around my ears as I listened for the grinding of the spheres...


and wonder now where you wound up

how you are or even if you are any longer

some reminder of a romantic boy's idea


of poetry and erotic mysticism...

a seemingly better idea than the slavery and slow death

of marriage and what the dwindling of days


have delivered unto us...

memories of our best selves that time and loss


have ground down to their places in mind...


and perhaps me barely remembered if at all

while the shrine of your bedroom outlasts

the hospital smells of age and withdrawal...




Content (c) 2008-2013 Philip Milito. All rights reserved.