Jan 2, 2007

Ochre Drawers


you left your ochre drawers here last night
on the hall tree, free and sized perfectly to your body,
as if you were sitting there
crumpled with nothing to say.

so, as befits me,
I took them and brought them to my nostrils
there
for a moment and drew a breath.

the smell was you,
undoubtedly,

crushed magnolia in early summer,
ligustrum in spring

so

I placed them back, where i found them,
set your cigarette lighter
on top
so your drawers wouldn’t fly away,
a reminder to give them back to you,

to call you sometime about this little problem,
this memento of your presence that I am not too reluctant to discard, happy enough,
really, to have its presence linger here on the hall tree,
as if you were there in person,
to take in, to linger awhile,
an iced glass of a summer drink,
the name of which I have forgotten
despite my desire for it:

another sip, another shuffle of the blanket, clink of ice against glass,
red ochre drawers chewed
like a peeled mandarin orange,
would perhaps be sufficient,

wouldn’t it? 

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