The Glass Top Stove

I clean the house

When I feel helpless.

If I can just clean that little spot

I would have something.

And being able to do something,

Is meaningful

In a world filled with sorrow.

 

A glass top stove

So scorched and black

From months of neglect

Calls for attention.

I stand above it

wondering how it got so worn.

How my life has

Left me

Scorched and black?

Charred remains,

Remaining ever charred.

 

My hand moves clockwise

As I scrub counter-clockwise.

The end result is insignificant.

The scorchedness remains.

 

I wonder why she left

Without a word.

Her pain too strong,

For niceties,

For reconciliation.

 

The grey speckled

Surface of the stove

Peeks through

The darkness.

How many months will

This take to shine?

How many years did

the sorrow mount?

Quiet avoidance

Of simple connections.

Vigorous denials

Of ever increasing distance,

Obscuring even the smallest

Sign of affection.

 

I work an hour,

Then two.

The darkness remains.

The pain remains.

This will not go away

Like my darling girl,

My darling gentle girl.

 

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Life Continues

Life continues after the music ceases.

You stand unsure

Of which direction to turn

All paths seem sadly familiar

A solitary violinist

Playing something

Vaguely recognizable

On a busy city’s street.

 

And life continues, after the music ceases.

The actor sits alone facing

The dressing room mirror

After the final curtain

The actors have left

The audience has left

But he remains

Unwilling or unable

To let go

Of the joy he felt

Under brightly beaming stagelights.

 

And life continues, after the music ceases.

With or without you

The moments pass

No longer intriguing

A crumpled smile

In silence.