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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About oxrider

Mr. Winter has written novels, books of poetry and short stories, and books on acting. He has written over three dozen plays, winning the S.C. Playwright’s Festival. His inventive theatrical work has been seen in the US and Europe. A.F. Winter has been acting, teaching, and directing, for over 30 years. He created a theatre which worked with at-risk youth giving them positive alternatives in their lives. Please visit his website at AFWinter.com. View all posts by oxrider

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