The Roses In The Purple Vase

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When darkness 

defies me

absolution

avoids me

and loneliness 

is my one true companion 

I return to the girls

who wait for me

by the decade

like the one

with the curvy

full-breasted woman body 

and wild ginger hair

in the summer of 87

who loved to play hide

and go seek 

in the darting, day shadows

of the naked apartment on

10th Street

that sat like 

the summit of a birthday cake

atop the corner flower shop

called A Simple Tryst of Fate

as Rubinstein played

Chopin’s Waltz No. 5 in A-Flat Minor

on the 

only fidelity in the room.

I hold on to her

like I’m suffocating her heart

until the moment 

evaporates 

like kettle steam

and won’t return

until sunlight,

finds the roses

in the purple vase

on my peaceful table

and opens its petals

with tenderness 

like I did

in the summer of 87

when her negligee made touchdown

on the landing strip

of her bare feet.



 


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