… in sorrows.

By J. K. McDowell

October 2016

 

The foyer is haunted by the soft scent of a

Decaying gecko. Some explorers never

Return. We merge and mingle incomplete sorrows.

 

On a lazy Sunday there is always more

Poetry to be written. The tour of a friend’s

Rose garden is postponed. I sip slow sorrows.

 

Tomorrow, another classmate’s obituary

Will be printed. Wait, some days this is not so.

Someday this will never be so. Sip more sorrows.

 

The lockbox is perfumed; the claw is small and

Covered in soft fur. My desires hopelessly

Inseparable from her sweet gifts and sorrows.

 

Hardware store aisle end cap reminds me that October

Still falls within the Season of Named Storms.

Clouds gather and spiral around other sorrows.

 

Not home, but wandering the streets of Tangier,

French radio beckons from the corner café.

No dance steps but I am never lost in sorrows.

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